A Voice in the North
by Umodin
Summary: He was called Dragonborn once, and through trial and tribulation he lived up to that title. Seven years he had been the protector of Skyrim, only to die from a dagger to the belly by the hand of his good-brother. He hoped to feast in Sovngarde, but no, his Mistress had plans for him. Flung into the sandbox of the Princes, the now named Jon Snow knows not to spurn his second chance.
1. Boredom

Istind Hearthome did not bother to hold back his tongue as the dagger he'd entrusted to his wife, for the purpose of _protection_ , was buried hilt deep into his belly. He'd been asleep in his Whiterun estate of Breezhome, one of the few places in the whole of Skyrim Istind felt he could truly drop his guard. This was the place where his children were raised, where he drank and ate and shared tale with friends and family, where he shared a bed with what he believed to be the most beautiful woman in all of Tamriel…

He knew that this betrayal would be his end, that there was no living through the blade that pierced his gut. Istind had forged the damned dagger himself: an alloy of glass and dragonbone he'd created on a whim, enchanted with the ability to absorb life, the blade coated with a poison that made those that met its edge incapable of healing within the school of Restoration. The poison was a nameless masterpiece he'd stolen from the Dark Brotherhood when his time with them was over.

It was meant to protect her; protect their children, their family. Not to be used against him.

Coughing out a glob of blood, the taste of copper firmly on his tongue, dribbling down his cheek, Istind met the stare of his attacker. Istind knew this man well, he'd taken his sister to wife and fathered three children through her. His dark brown hair was mottled with the crimson of blood, his body shaking back and forth. Laughter bubbled from his throat, a disturbed cackle that would have the bravest of men falter.

Lucan Velarius.

Lucan's eyes held nothing save for madness, their once vibrant green now a sickly orange with thinly slit pupils: the most common indicator of vampirism. Lucan blamed his affliction on Istind, believing that this never would have happened had Camilla not visited Riverwood. As if Istind _wanted_ this to happen. His duty as the Dragonborn forced him away- Miraak and his cultists were rising in Solstheim and Istind had to end their threat.

Before leaving for Solstheim, Istind made sure to give his family all his remaining time. They were to stay in Breezehome, or visit the Companions or Jarl Balgruuf, _away_ from the dangers of the world. Alas, Camilla was a stubborn woman. Her stubbornness was the original reason Istind had been attracted to her in the first place, speaking truly. She wanted to go to Riverwood. It had been almost a year since she'd seen Lucan. _It would be good,_ she said.

The children were left with the Companions, Aela happy to keep the pups in line. They were young yet, and it was best they not travel, not without Istind at least. Odahviing, his ever-loyal friend, was kind enough to bring Camilla to Riverwood, and then brought him to Solstheim immediately after. Unknown to Camilla, Istind had been happy for her decision. He wanted her to be with a loved one, should he not return at all. A shoulder to cry on in times of mourning.

It was during the cover of night, whilst he was gone, that the vampires stuck Riverwood. There were none that could stop their carnage. Perhaps Delphine could have, had the Blade not been stubbornly wasting away in Sky Haven Temple. They pillaged and raped and made thralls of the people, but when they found Camilla Hearthome, a former inhabitant of Riverwood, wife of the well-known Dragonborn, the man that stopped the blackening of the sun…

"They took turns raping her," said Lucan, his voice watery and raw, even through his mad laughter. He slapped that hilt of the dagger, causing Istind to spit out more blood as pain shot through his person. "One after another, all of them took her body. They made thralls of all the men in Riverwood and forced them to do the same. As they did with the dogs, the goats, cows and the horses. It happened for _hours._ She screamed and screamed, begging for She screamed and screamed, begging for _you_ , you who never came. They made me watch as they did this, made me watch as they defiled my sister in the worst of ways, made me watch as they _killed her!"_

He took a breath, pausing to contain himself. It did not last. _"_ …At least that was a swift kill, a dagger to the eye. A sort of mercy, I suppose… But they weren't done. _Oh_ _no!_ She was a corpse that was fresh, only her face was ruined, and so they had everybody do the same they did when she was living. Then, once they were bored, they set upon the rest of the town. Those… Those were slow deaths. Even the children. _Especially_ the children! …Finally, they came to me. _Kin to dragon,_ they said. _Live as we do._ It's all your fault- _ALL OF IT! NONE OF THIS WOULD HAVE HAPPENED IF YOU HADN'T ENTERED OUR LIVES!"_

Vampirism transferred from lower stock had the tendency to beget madness, especially when the vampire in question was left to their own devices. Istind hadn't truly had the time to grieve for his wife when he came upon the Ruin of Riverwood. Lucan was the only one there, laughing and crying and screaming at the sun as he burned the townsfolk with wood taken from Alvar's home. Istind needed answers and Lucan was unstable, so he knocked his good-brother out and brought him to Whiterun. He'd almost all the ingredients needed to cure vampirism and was ready to perform the procedure in two days.

Lucan, knowing this, knowing he was be free, still chose to attack. Madness.

"The… young… uns?" It was a struggle to speak, each word bringing forth more blood, choking him. He could feel his vision fading.

"Hmm? I suppose they're family… Yes! I know! I'll turn them! We'll be a clan all our own, their loving uncle and their dragons' blood… We'll stop the other clans together, so that there will never be another Camilla. Vampires cannot become thralls, so we'll just have to turn the whole of Tamriel. A world of peace, under one banner. A paradise."

Paradise, he says. That would not lead to paradise, that would lead to the end of all things. Should such a thing happen, Tamriel would fall to Molag Bal. The Daedric Prince of Rape and Domination would meld Coldharbor to Nirn, and ten thousand years of darkness would follow.

Heart hardened and mind focused, Istind knew he had to end Lucas with what little time he had left. If not for Tamriel, then for his children. Astrid, his firstborn – the five-year-old girl with honey colored hair and bright green eyes that shined in the wild. Emer, his three-year-old girl, coal black hair and sapphire eyed, his little mage. Bolvar, his only son, a one-year-old boy with brown hair and green eyes, too young to truly understand who his parents even were… He would not allow his children to be prey to their uncle's madness.

With his last breath, Istind thought hard on the flames of the world, the inferno of his rage, the glory of the sun, and his Thu'um took shape from these thoughts.

" _Yol… Toor-!"_

He could not speak the last word of the shout, could not say _Shul._ The Thu'um was hard on the throat all its own, and the circumstance of his death made such difficulty far worse. Still, the two-worded shout did what was needed. Lucan screamed as the flames latched onto his body, screamed as they burned him, screamed as Breezehome became both of their funeral pyres.

Through Lucan's screams, Istind's eyelids grew too heavy to combat, his consciousness fading with their closing. It was in this moment that Istind Hearthome, Dragonborn, Thane of Whiterun, Harbinger of the Companions, Archmage of the College of Winterhold and Champion of the Daedric Princes Nocturnal, Meridia and Azura, passed on from Nirn.

* * *

She did not contain her elation. Shadows held no need for such decorum, certainly not when Nocturnal felt the soul of her Champion enter her realm. As per their pact, his was hers to do with as she wished, such was the contract of the Nightingale. True, he'd others that claimed his soul, but she'd made the claim first and she was… _lucky_ , enough to have grabbed his soul from the aether before her kin could.

She willed it to appear before her, a translucent sphere of pale-yellow mist. With a wave of her wrist, the mist shifted, an infant of energy taking its place. Nocturnal smiled maternally at Istind's wide-eyed stare and loosened her shawl. Her breasts were open for all of Oblivion to see, and she brought her conquest's face toward her tit. He did nothing, so she forced his mouth to her flesh, a silent demand for him to suckle from her nipple. Her Champion was like her child, and what mother did not permit their child their breast?

Nocturnal remembered clearly on the circumstances of his entering her service. He was a newly established assassin of the Dark Brotherhood, skilled in way that none of their members could claim. They were the shadow on the wall, he was the sledge that destroyed the wall. A blunt instrument that was smart enough to pick and choose when to use his prowess effectively.

He was… _rapture._

Karliah, her last loyal Nightingale of the time, had exhausted her resources. Mercer Frey was a cunning man and far more ruthless than she, and the Dark Elf felt she had no other choice but to let go of her pride. She contacted the Dark Brotherhood and contracted Istind to kill Mercer Frey for the crimes of murdering his fellow Nightingale, who also happened to have been her lover, and for the theft of the Skeleton Key. Istind accepted, and Karliah gave him all of the traitor's habits, hoping for a clean kill.

It was not. Clean, that is. However, the sheer deviousness and unapologetic cruelty that it exemplified had Nocturnal shivering in delight. The Daedric Prince knew then that she wanted Istind as her own, before others of her kind could sink their teeth and claws and tentacles into him.

Istind began the job stealthily. He stole potions of invisibility and raw fire salts from the apothecary in Riften. While invisible, he sealed off all the hidden entryways and exits in Mercery Frey's manse. All but the front door, of course. He spilled the fire salts all over the wood floor then, over the cloth of the bed and the paper of the books… And Istind waited for his prey to arrive.

Mercer did not appear for another two weeks, having been on a heist of some difficulty in the Pale. Upon returning home, Istind locked the front door and let go of his subtlety. At this point in time, Istind knew magic enough to get by, though was certainly not at the level of mastery he'd attained later in life, and so threw a fireball through Mercers window. He'd poured all of his magicka into that ball, which had the flame burn hotter and grow larger and become more explosive, which coupled with the fire salts… The manse exploded, a conflagration so great it reached the heavens. Mercer died in one of the most painful ways possible, just as Nocturnal wished. Upon his death, she took his soul to her chambers, where she offered him to her servants to rape and torture for all eternity. Such was the price for defying his contract and stealing from the patron of thieves.

Istind looted the wreckage of the manse as best he could and found the Skeleton Key eventually. It could not be broken, else it would have been turned to slag. He returned it to Karliah, and in that moment Nocturnal came to him. It had been over a century since she'd been so entertained, and she wanted more. She named him her Champion, and offered him her gift. Being the Champion of Nocturnal allowed minor access to her realms of influence: Stealth, Subterfuge, Strife. He chose Stealth, and so the magic of Shadowstalk was bestowed upon him; the ability to remain unseen for a few minuets a day.

"Istind, my dearest Champion. I bid you welcome to Evergloam." Nocturnal purred, her attempt at a warm smile seeming more like a sinister smirk. Istind kept his attention on her tit, unable to move or be bothered by her words. "Yes, I supposed you _are_ busy, aren't you? I will speak then, and you will listen." She willed her breast to produce milk, and her lips curled as it began to seep into her Champions mouth.

"As you well know, Nirn is the culmination of the Aedra. Once they were Daedra, but they each gave parts of their person into the very creation of Nirn, and so lost such title. It is because Nirn has the essence of the Aedra that we Princes are so drawn to it. Our realms of influence are magnified there, more than any other realm of Oblivion aside our own."

She paused, considering her next words, curling her fingers through misty wisps of her Champions hair.

"We learned that our realms of influence were so strong on Nirn due to the mortals that inhabited the land. And we'd a thought. If the Aedra could create a place like this, surely we could do the same, surely we could do better."

Istind stopped suckling, an action Nocturnal took to be akin to shock. Ever the loving mother, she patted his scalp and forced him to keep taking her milk as she continued her tale.

"Surprising, isn't it? That we Princes desired to be like the Aerda at one point. But we were not fools like them, we would not give up our essence in order to craft a new world. That would cripple us, would bind us to our project and would cut our access from Nirn. No, we chose a different route. Opposed to using our essence as we were, we instead chose to put pieces of our influence, our realms of Oblivion, into our creation. A pact was made, a pocket of Oblivion that no Prince could solely claim, and our work began."

Nocturnal hummed. "The first to being was Mehrunes Dagon, surprisingly. He willed a portion of the Deadlands towards our project, larger that the landmass of Tamriel itself, and renamed this new continent Essos. After, Sheogorath gave the land Valyria, an island nation of mountainous volcanos, and offered oceans and seas taken directly from his Shivering Isles. Hircine crafted the lands of Ashai and the continent of Westeros, and others added from there. Malakath distorted the southern reaches of Westeros, turning its lush fields into harsh deserts, and called it Dorne. Molag Bal did the same to the North, creating the aptly named Lands of Always Winter."

Noting that his attention was not fully on her words, as it should be, Nocturnal removed Istind from her breast. Shuffling her shawl back into place, she put him over her shoulder and began to burp him, relishing in his shame.

"I myself, along with Azura and Meridia, your other patrons, created the cycle of Night and Day, of Summer and Winter. Meridia formed the sun and stars, I crafted the moon and the space the stars called home, and Azura created their cycle. Hercine chose to add creatures to our land, mammoths and shadowcats and direwolves and more. Peryite, wishing to be of use for once, did so too. He gave plants of poison to our world, vile basilisks, and went so far as to create a new species of daedra in his image, calling them dragons in spite towards Akatosh. Molag Bal, seeing that daedra were not forbidden, populated his area with his Soul Shriven, who were later renamed as Others. Hermaeus Mora then saw a problem and offered a solution. Our realm was not connected to the Aetherius, and thus magic was thought impossible. He'd come across magics of obscurity over the years and offered their knowledge to the world, for those bold enough to claim it."

She finished burping her Champion at this point and moved him once more. Now cradled in her arms, Nocturnal peered down at his form.

"At this point, we needed inhabitants. It was decided that this would not be a land of daedra. No, this would be one for mortals. Luckily, Nirn was still open to us, and we stole from their stock. Many samples from each race were placed in different parts of our world, some going extinct while some thriving. It was when mortals were added to the mix that the other Princes became involved. Boethiah gave them murder and deceit and Sanguine added on to their, their morals much looser. To combat these two, Jyggalag instilled a system of honor and order unto the mortals. Then came religion. Namira and Clavicus Vile and Vaermina all took on the titles of gods, be they the Mancy Faced, the Old, the Seven… they became patron to these people."

Nocturnal grinned at Istind's wide-eyed stare, wiggling her finger at his stomach, forcing a laugh from his milk addled mouth. The shame was just addictive.

"To name a realm of Oblivion was to claim it, and so this world was let nameless, and we let things lie. On occasion, we would look down at what we made and influence it to our liking. Molag Bal marched his Others south at one point, hoping to add a host of undead thralls to his armies. In retaliation, Meridia gave Dawnbreaker to a man that later became known at the Last Hero, the greatest champion of our world who fought tooth and nail against the very dead itself. When Jyggalag separated from Sheogorath in full, he destroyed the continent of Valyria, his wrath known as the Doom. Peryite had grown to love his dragons, and so blanketed the remains of Valyria in miasma, keeping whatever remained of his daedra safe. Sheogorath has recently been throwing a small fit, a mortal king called Aerys was slain and the Prince of Madness was quite fond of that one."

Bored of playing the role of a mother, Nocturnal dropped Istind, his spirit losing the form of an infant, returning to the ball of mist he arrived as. She willed him to float in front of her.

"You might ask, _Mistress, why are you telling me this?_ and my answer, my dearest Champion, is boredom. I have never given our world much interest, the only peoples that hold my eye are the Faceless Men that worship Clavicus Vile. But they are few, and Nirn has many more people of note. Such as yourself. And you are no longer of Nirn."

The space around them changed in that moment. What was once an open plain of grey grass and purple skies we now a pale stone tower in the middle of a red desert. The sound of a screaming woman echoed through the halls of the keep. In front of the tower stood three armored men, clothed in heavy silver platemail with long white capes, the symbol of a three-headed dragon proudly emblazoned on their chests.

Nocturnal leisurely walked past them. They could not see her, none could see her, for she was their shadow. She made way of the tower stair, further and further towards the sound of creaming. Finally, she entered the room, a dimly lit space with curtains covering the windows, a single bed of heavy furs sat in its middle. A black haired woman with grey eyes was lain on that furred bed, her legs spread wide as the crown of a head made its way out of her cunt. Another woman clothed like a servant was beside her, speaking calming words of support.

"Because you are no longer of Nirn," said Nocturnal, casually ignored the further intensified screams. "You might bring this world the entertainment I crave. Do as you will, I care not. Be a saint, be a demon. Slaughter millions, father thousands. Become an emperor or cobble shoes till you are grey. This is your sandbox. Do me the favor of making something interesting."

With that final statement, the black-haired woman gave one last scream and Nocturnal made her move. Instind's soul was sent spiraling towards the baby that was freshly born, merging into its blood-coated form, and he let out a loud, pitiful scream.

The servant grabbed the newly born babe and cleaned him as best she could.

"It's a boy! Milady, you've born a healthy little boy."

"No… I was meanth to birth a girl. A Visenya. That's what he said…"

"Gods be good you'll have another babe, that time a girl, and many more boys and girls after. But this is not that girl, I'm afraid. What will you name him, milady?"

As Lyanna Stark held her son, her eyes tired and her body weak, she offered only one word before sleep took her.

"Jon."

* * *

 **Found a Skyrim: Special Edition in a garage sale for $7. Cracked it open, played for a while, decided to revisit my old story. This is a rewrite of King of Qarth. Some major changes occurred, and I'd like to go over one of them real quick. In this version, Lucan was the one to kill Istind, as opposed to Camilla doing the deed. I felt that it made more sense that way and had a more realistic turn.**

 **Also, I didn't make up a character this time, like I did for Jaeherys Blackfyre. Istind is now in the body of Jon Snow. From the finale of Season 6, we can guarantee that Jon is the son of Lyanna Stark, meaning he is also the son of Rhaegar Targaryen. It's poetic in my mind that the Dragonborn from Skyrim becomes the son of a North-bred lady and a dragon prince. I'll be going over small segments of Jon's childhood before we get into the canon of GoT, and hopefully I'll do this justice.**

 **I will say right now that while this is a GoT crossover, I'll be taking heavy influence from the books. The scenes from Dorne are so different from book to show that it can't really be explained, and there's a lot more explanation of character and scenery to be found in the books. The big reason I'm sticking with a GoT crossover is because the series starts with Jon being 17, and because I don't want to butcher GRRM's writing style too much. Just note that there'll be a bit of back and forth between book and show.**

 **If you liked this story, please Favorite/Follow and don't forget to Review.**


	2. Hunt

On the moonlit expanse of the wolfswood, a pair of pups were hunting a boar. They were clothed in dark leather raiment's, with hoods over their head and grey cloth covering their mouths, and they were scented with horse piss to keep their prey unalerted. Rays of pale light rained down on them, the full moon high on overhead, and a picture of eerie peace settled over the roots of the oak and evergreen trees they walked past.

The pair of pups were not as silent as they hoped they were, their leather boots cracking on hardened leaves and smooshing against the wet grass.

"We shouldn't be here." Robb whispered, his blue eyes darting around the thick trees. He was a handsome boy, with red-brown hair and a fair complexion. "Mother told us we were only to hunt with the kennel master and his dogs, and always with a pair of guards on hand."

" _Your_ mother told you that, not mine." Jon retorted, firm and kind even in the face of Robb's quickly growing shame. He did not share his looks with Robb, who took after his lady mother, and instead was black of hair with grey eyes and pale skin. Their father said he took after their uncle Benjen. "Just give me the blame, should we be questioned. She would not believe you were the one to suggest this in any case."

"I _didn't!_ It was you!"

"All the better then."

This was their first true hunt without a guide. The pair were ten years of age, and Jon had been growing restless. He knew all the sword and bow lessons that had been taught to him by Ser Rodrik Cassel and knew plenty more, and needed to test his mettle on something that didn't stand still or somebody that didn't wear training pads. He needed to fight something that was _live._ Jon had mentioned the idea of going on a hunt with Robb, calling it a perfect way to determine if the lessons were working.

They stopped as bats flew overhead, their squeaks echoing through the knobby branches of the ancient forest. The wolfswood was a special place to Jon, its various trees reminded him of the Gildergreen, only these were larger and far more numerous. Jon held up a hand and placed it on Robbs chest; his brother came to a halt. Though his eyes were not what they once were, Jon's sight was still better than most in the dead of night.

The boar was stood some three hundred feet away in the meadow beyond the thicket, drinking from a puddle of melted snow. It was a magnificent looking beast that looked nearly as thick as a pony. Jon grabbed his bow and tip-toed towards the pig as silently as he could, Robb following his example from behind.

Jon held is bow aloft and nocked an arrow from his quiver into the string, aiming as he crept closer and closer. He was less than a hundred feet away at this point, though more than fifty. The boar paused, its grand head jerking around in all manner of direction, wary.

"On my loose," Jon whispered to Robb. The larger boy also had his bow nocked, silently waiting.

Jon took a deep breath, the air fresh and clear, and he centered his body. He exhaled slow and deep, and as his arrow flew, Robbs following just a moment later. The boar jerked its head towards them one last time as the arrows descended. Jon missed its flank by just a hair and Robb hit it in the front left leg, but the creature was most certainly not dead, else it would not be squealing and thrashing so wildly. It stamped the ground once, twice, and a third time for good measure, and charged at the pair; tusks sharp and poised to run them through.

Its rampage cut through the side of a brittle fir tree. The boar was not stopping, the only reason it was not faster was due to the arrow lodge in its leg.

"We have to move!" Robb sounded with alarm, already racing back towards his pony saddled half a mile back.

Jon did not move. He dug his boots into the dirt and grabbed the small dirk at his side; a castle-forged steel blade only four inches long. It wasn't much, but anything was useful in combat.

When the boar was just fifteen feet away, the scent of mud and shit and sweat reaching Jon's nose, he acted. He inhaled deeply and whispered a word that rumbled like the tremor of the earth, louder than any normal man or boy could dare imitate. His Thu'um echoed through the forest, an almighty sound that drowned out all other noises.

" _Drem!"_

The bats in the forest stilled, the squirrels on the tree bark chattered happily, the bugs that were on his person went away, and the boar stopped. It looked about curiously and walked towards Jon. Butting its snout against his though, Jon patted its flank, the boar rumbling its pleasure.

Tamrielic magic was a difficult thing to accomplish in this world. This nameless world of the daedra was not formed in the Aethirius, so there was no access to Magicka. Instead, in order to use spells from the schools of Restoration, Destruction, Alteration and all the others, the price was cut from his lifespan. Jon remembered clearly when he attempted to use Flames to light a brazier a few years back. He was put on a sickbed for a fortnight, none were sure if he would survive. Magic could not be taken lightly in this land, and so Jon was careful.

The Thu'um did not fall into this category, however. For a Dovah, Shouting was a power of the soul. And it was Jon's soul that was brought to Westeros. Sadly, his lungs were not as strong as an adults. Jon could not complete fully worded Shouts, not yet. When he was older he would reach that stage. For now, Jon was content to calm rampaging animals and meditate on the meaning of his Words of Power.

Jon tickled at the boar's nose, the great beast snorting and squealing in delight. This was the power of Drem; Dovahzul for Peace. It calmed animals in an instant, halting their desire to fight or flee.

Jon caressed the boars hide, giving it attention. The beast was content in his arms, it felt safe. Such was the power of the Thu'um.

Then Jon brought his knife down onto the beast's skull, and the rumbling snorting and squealing stopped. The boars head slumped in his arms, its body falling to the ground in a heap. Jon pulled out his blade with force, and blood slowed onto the grass like spilled summerwine.

"Robb! Robb, come back! I killed it!"

Jon wasted no time. He knelt down, pushing the corpse onto its back, and plunging his dirk into its stomach, removing the innards as best he could. Jon did not stop, even as he heard the trot of a horse coming upon him. The sound was like rolling thunder traveling on the floors of the wolfswood. There were more than one horse coming his way.

He turned his head and saw the Robb had returned, though not by choice. He was being held by the scruff of his collar by Hullen, the sour looking master of horse, with Jory Cassel mounted on a destrier by his side, both Robb's and Jon's ponies fastened to his saddle. There was a pair of grey furred hunting hounds by Hullens side. One of them made way to Jon, and began consuming the innards strewn on the floor, a bloody mess on its muzzle.

"You are out far too late, lads." Jory said. He was a rough looking man, with cropped black hair and stern brown eye, standing only slightly shorter than their lord father. "Lord Stark will want words. He's awake now, and he's sitting his anger."

"We weren't hurt." Robb scowled, his arms crossed.

"Aye, might not have been. You still caused a worry." Jory rolled his shoulders. "Jon, get on your horse, we're to return to Winterfell."

Frowning, Jon stood. He tried to drag the boar towards his pony, but was met with little success. It was more than twice his weight, and his arms were not muscled yet. He could not move the body.

Jory let out a sigh, "Hullen, help the lad out. These two should at least have a trophy for all the trouble they've caused."

The master of horse hopped down from his destrier, a great black beast, and lifted the boar on his shoulders with nary a grunt. Jon watched as the large man moved his kill onto the back of his horse, tying it down with a thick cord of rope and sullenly trudged along. He mounted his pony, still noosed to Jory's own beast of burden, and was pulled towards Winterfell.

Jon could see the castle even from this distance, leagues away. Winterfell's bell tower stood high in the distance, nearly touching the clouds overhead. The castle walls were seven feet thick and over one hundred feet tall, made from a deep granite stone with a wide, frenzy filled moat at its front.

They rode for over an hour, past the silent trees and the chatty animals and insects that were active in the night, all the way to the Battlements Gate. Jon and Robb took the Hunter's Gate when they left, it being next to the kennels and kitchens and stables made it ideal. They intended to find a kill and drop it off at the kitchens for the cooks to prepare, hoping to feast on it for a week. The boar was large enough to do that and more.

"Open the gates!" Jory shouted. "I've got them!"

The thirty foot tall gate made of dark ironwood opened with a great heave, and a wave of warmth seeped into Jon. The hot springs that Winterfell was built upon warmed the castle grounds at all times, especially in the early summer.

At the gate was a group of men, their night clothes covered by heavy fur coats. Some had blades, some had axes, one even held the leashes of five different hunting dogs. At their center was a man with a long face, dark hair and grey eyes. His closely cropped bear had soft lines of grey in them, and he stood with a firm scowl on his face.

Their father, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

Jon and Robb were brought before the man, and dropped like potato sacks onto the warm stone pavement. Robb could not meet his father's eye, but Jon could. He had seen far worse than an angry father. Grey met grey, and for a time there was a silence.

"What do you have to say for yourselves?" Their father asked.

"We wanted to bring back a kill, wanted to make you proud. We're ten now, old enough to hunt on our own. We even brought back a boar." Robb said, and Jon turned to his brother. Though he shook and his words rang uncertainly, that he spoke at all made Jon feel proud that this was his brother.

"Aye, you did kill something." Their father acknowledged, waking way towards the boar. "You did this all on your own?"

"Robb shot it in the leg," Jon shrugged. "I stabbed it with my knife when it came too close."

"What were you planning on doing with this kill?" Their father asked, inspecting the beast with a hand on its flank.

"Eat it, skin it, turn its hide into something we would use." Jon said, Robb nodding at his side.

Their lord father hummed, "You two will do that and more. You will take that beast to the skinner, and without aid you will rend its hide. You will take that to the leatherworker, to boil and prepare properly. You will take the meat to the kitchens and cook it. And, you will not eat of the meat of your boar; only broth made from its bones will be permitted. Broth that you too will make."

"But father!" Robb sounded, only to stop as their father glared down at him.

"No." His voice was as hard as steel. "It's soon to be sunrise, already I can see the night lightening overhead. Your mother was sick with worry. I had the guardsmen scouring the whole of the castle, along with the rest of the wolfswood as well. Those men will likely be gone for weeks, searching for you without end, not knowing that you are safe behind warm walls while they keep to the mud and cold. They deserve a good, warm meal upon their return, and since you are the reason they are gone, your boar will be what feeds them. All actions have consequences, Robb."

He stopped then, his glare receding. He looked old in that moment, far older than his twenty-eight years.

"And that is only the punishment for hunting on your own." He said, his hands gripping both Robb and Jon by the shoulders, forcefully bringing them towards the lodgings of the castle. The rest of the men dispersed, either returning to their posts or returning to their beds. "There is still the matter of your being out so late."

"It was fine, father." Jon insisted.

"Fine? _Fine_ , was it? Much as I wish it were, the wolfswood is not only inhabited by boars. There are wolves and bears, and there are also wildlings. Whenever I try to remove them, try to root them out, they always come back, different faces and different clans, but wildlings all the same. Should you have been unlucky… I do not wish to think on what would happen. Men go hunting, not boys, because men are old enough and trained enough to take care of themselves. You are not men, nor are you trained. You two are barely boys; closer in age to younglings than you are to grown men."

Robb wilted as he was shuffled into the living quarters. The granite stone gave way to a furnished room, where silk drapes and fur linings decorated the walls. There were carved statues, memorials of the old kings and friends and family of House Stark. A fire pit was lit inside, the lady Catelyn poking the flames with a hot iron, her cheeks red and tear-streaked. The shadows illuminated the slight swell of her stomach. She held the fifth trueborn child of Ned Stark within her womb.

"Cat, I've brought our son."

She turned to Robb, her morose expression replaced with a relieved smile. She rushed him, bringing Robb to her chest and embracing him as if he had been gone for months.

"You stupid boy." She said, sniffling into Robb's sweaty auburn curls. "What were you thinking? Do you know what could have happened? What would I do should you die? What of Sansa and Arya and Bran? _Never_ leave me like that again."

"He very well might not." Jon's father said wryly. He turned his attention onto his trueborn son. "Robb, you have proven that you can sneak out of Winterfell. Whether by luck or skill, you escaped the eyes of the guard, which tells me that there aren't enough eyes on you. Until I deem you able, your mother will be my eyes, and you will not leave her sight. You will take your studies to her quarters, you will train in the view of her room and you will eat your meals in her company."

It did not sound like a punishment, but Jon knew differently. To spend your every waking hour with somebody that would not allow you your privacy… This was a harsh punishment, one that would become progressively harder over time.

Lady Catelyn nodded into Robbs hair, and then opened her eyes. She glared a blue fury at Jon, and her tongue was wet with venom. "And what of _him_? What is the bastard's punishment? He nearly had Robb killed."

"Mind your words." Their father's voice was tired, but an edge was there all the same. "He is my blood."

 _But not your son_ , Jon thought. Jon knew his true origin, knew that his mother was Lyanna Stark, the sister of Eddard Stark. This man was not his true father, but instead his uncle. His true father was long dead, his chest caved in by Robert Baratheon's Warhammer. Just as well, Jon did not have a care on that matter. Rhaegar Targaryen brought war upon Westeros, and he deserved his punishment. The prince may have been his father by blood, but Ned Stark was his father by deed. The man took him into his home and raised him amongst his own children.

Catelyn Tully, however, was most assuredly not a mother to Jon. She treated him as vermin ever since he was brought to Winterfell. Once, when he fell to sickness from using Tamrielic magic, she had sat by his sickbed and prayed to her Seven that he died in his fever. That more than anything kept his opinion firm.

His father continued to speak, "Their crime was the same, so their punishment will be the same." He held up a hand, Catelyn's mouth already opened to decry such an act. "Robb and Jon will not be under your watch, Cat. Only Robb. I do not yet know who will watch over Jon, but that person will be named in the morning."

With that, Robb and Jon were ushered away, sent scrambling to their quarters. They were on opposite sides of the castle. Lady Catelyn had been the one to decree that, and Jon's father did not deny her. Jon did not mind, he had a warm bed behind strong walls; what did it matter that he slept farther away from his cousins?

The room was the smallest of his siblings, even smaller than little Bran's room. Smaller even than the nursery that would soon be used. Jon did not decorate the room, a small closet made of blackbriar wood was nestled in the corner and a feather bed with bear pelt covers was sat in the middle of the granite stone space. Jon removed his leathers and equipment quickly and fell upon the bed in just his under garments.

Sleep took him quickly, and Jon dreamt of seeing Skyrim high in the clouds on the back of Odahviing.

* * *

 **Aaaand, done! This is actually more akin to the way I write on my personal novel. It might be a little off when compared to what you've seen on my profile, but I intend to give quality. I only took base descriptions of the wolfswood and Winterfell from the GoT wiki page, and made up the rest.**

 **For your understanding, this is ten years after Istind became Jon Snow. You might think he was tame, and the simple fact of the matter is that he** _ **can't**_ **do anything too out there. He understands that he has it good, being the Dragonborn and a commoner before that, how could he not? Jon Snow is going to enjoy his second childhood, and when he becomes an adult, well… Well, I actually don't know. But, he's going to take things slow, and only show his cards when he has no choice.**

 **There will be a set of childhood stories, like the one from this chapter, up until we get to where the story starts from the show. I'm thinking two or three more, though there could be up to six if my muse has good thoughts or if people give me good suggestions. There will be a distinctive change in Jon Snow's role amongst the household of Winterfell, and I hope you'll enjoy my plan for him.**

 **If you liked this story, please Favorite/Follow it and don't forget to send me a Review!**


	3. Anger

As he lay on the ground, feeling the warm cobblestone of Winterfell's training yard on his back whilst he stared out at a cloudless sky, Jon remembered exactly why he did not like heavy armor.

In Skyrim, he would always wear lighter gear. Jerkins of elven and glass and even stalhrim leather make, with chitin and dragonscale helms, and boots as light as a feather. He would wear plated gloves on occasion, great daedric gauntlets that covered the whole of his arms, spanning from the nail of his fingers to the curve of his shoulder. Sometimes, should he have been going into battle, he would wear a chainmail hauberk just above his underclothes, right under his leather threads. It was heavier than he liked, but its protection was worth his discomfort.

And yet, what Jon wore now was nothing like what he would prefer, and twice as uncomfortable still. It was heavy and it was an armor of a sort, but would not protect him from anything truly dangerous. A dull kitchen knife could pierce what he wore, as could anything with a sharp edge and a strong enough swinging arm behind it.

Jon's disliked of heavy armor was multiplied by the hatred he held for training pads. They were twice as bulky as he was, and his balance was so poor and his movements so stunted in them that even the likes of Theon Greyjoy could send him flat on his ass.

"Enjoying the view, bastard?" The squid asked, a cocky smirk was plastered on his face, hidden just beneath a patchy beard. Theon was a handsome boy, dark and lean with shaggy brown hair and sea blue eyes. He did not wear training pads like Jon did, and was instead clothed in a fur-lined cloak with a black-leather doublet and a pair of lambs-wool breeches. "It's all you deserve."

He was the ward of House Stark. Born as the third son of Balon Greyjoy, Theon was brought to Winterfell in the aftermath of his father's rebellion, a folly crusade for independence against the Baratheon crown. That was six years ago, and the Greyjoy scion had never shied away from mocking Jon's status as a bastard.

"Hold your tongue, Theon. That talk is for battle, not a training yard." Ser Rodrik Cassel rumbled. He was a stout, broad man with large white whiskers on his face, his murky black eyes showed his fifty years of age. Robb stood by him, watching the fight without a sound. "Jon, stand and repeat the exercise. You must become used to the weight of armor."

Jon had been under the tutelage of Rodrik Cassel for the past five years. Robb and he began training in weaponry under him at the age of eight. Jon enjoyed the man, he was lively and gruff all the same. Often, when Jon overdid his training, Ser Rodrik would feel responsible. That responsibility led to Jon spending many nights over these past years in his home, eating meals with his family and sleeping on a soft-wood cot in the living space of his holdfast in turn.

Groaning, Jon rolled back and forth, forcing a momentum in his body so that he could take a knee. He righted himself then, standing up and gripping a wooden longsword with both hands. Though younger, Jon was larger than Theon; larger than Robb and near a big as Lord Eddard. It was a point that Theon often felt unfair, and Jon relished in the older boys annoyance.

"Again." Ser Rodrik said a minute later, and Theon charged. He held his wooden bastard sword aloft and Jon was barely able to meet it, arms constricted by training pads. Theon swept his feet then, a trick that was not what they had been practicing for the past hour. Jon was forced to jump, and Theon used that moment to strike once more with his wooden bastard sword. Jon blocked it poorly, his left wrist twisting unnaturally, and Jon winced as a pop thrummed through his body, a cold flush meeting where the flesh was struck. He fell onto his back once more.

"Greyjoy, that was not the exercise," Ser Rodrik chastised. "You were meant to aim your hilt for Jon's head, not sweep with your foot."

"What does it matter? The bastard will lose and lose and then lose some more. It's a dull affair when you repeat the same thing all day. I should be allowed to change how I show the bastard his inferiority."

When Robb said nothing still, Jon felt something in him snap. He had never been cruel to Theon, but the squid had shown him only contempt. He was three years Jon's elder and acted as childish as Bran half the time. Every time that they interacted, Theon would not let his status as a bastard go away. Jon did not mind being a bastard in truth; he knew the responsibilities that his family held and was glad to escape such a station. But when the word came from Theons mouth, Jon was done. There was no reason for the way he acted.

"Better a bastard than a prisoner," Jon sounded, standing once more. " _Ward_ , my father calls you. A kind word for what you are, much like a washerwoman is a kind word for a whore. You must spread your legs well if you can get away with speaking like that."

Theon's smirk fell, and a hot flush came across his gaunt cheeks when Robb snickered from the side. He grit his teeth and bound forward, his training sword held with whitened knuckles. He would have struck if not for Ser Rodrik holding him back.

"Theon, Jon- mind your words. Banter is fine in training, but this is nothing of the sort."

"It's not training if I can't even stand." Jon growled, ripping a pad from his arm. It roughed his tender wrist, and Jon let out a hiss of displeasure. That didn't feel like a bruise. "Why am I still wearing these damned pads? It's only when I spar with Theon or Robb or Bran that I must put them on. With you and Jory, I can just wear anything. You know how good I am without them."

"Aye, you're a good sword. Better than most of the Winterfell guard, and your only thirteen." Ser Rodrik admitted with an easy shrug, his hand still firmly on Theon's shoulder. "Were it up to me you would be a squire in the south; you've the mind and fortitude for a knight. My opinion matters little, as it were. Lord Eddard is the one that ordered you to wear those pads. To train your discipline and to calm your wolfsblood, I believe he said. I am not privy to his thoughts and I will not question his order. Now put them back on, we'll do this routine until you have the exercise learned."

 _Calm my wolfsblood?_ Jon thought with a scowl. _What a foolish notion._ House Stark believed that some of its members were so hotblooded that they could not be reasoned with after a time, and claimed them as wolfsblooded. Uncle Brandon had the wolfsblood, as did his mother, Lyanna, according to uncle Benjen. Jon's father never spoke of his brother or sister, and so Benjen was the only source he could trust. Jon knew that his father thought him difficult after the hunt, three years prior; that he had the wolfsblood as well.

Jon just could not see how poorly fitted training pads would help anybody, however. All they did was rile him up.

"It matters not," Theon said, his flush receding quickly. That damned smirk was back on his face once more. "Even without the pads, the bastard stands little chance."

The arrogance in his voice, the surety that Jon was nothing… Jon should have expected it to come, should have reigned it in, but he did not. His _Dovahsos_ began to thrum from inside his body, a rippling sensation that gave him strength as his temper was torn asunder. His vision was replaced with red, a hazy view that did nothing to reel his anger in. Jon kept removing pad after pad until only a thinly stitched hauberk of boiled hide was on his chest, just above his underclothes. He breathed deeply, and threw his longsword at a patch of dirt.

"Jon." Ser Rodrik called with a warning tone. "Pick the sword up and put the pads back on. I have not yet dismissed you. _Jon!_ "

Jon stalked over towards the weapons rack, ignoring Ser Rodrik. In it, there were racked wooden training swords, blunt tourney blades and live steel. Even in his anger, Jon did not go for the weapons with an edge, nor did he reach for the blunt metal. He grabbed a pair of shortswords, one larger than the other, and gripped the smaller one in his left hand, his right taking the larger.

"Greyjoy, get back in your spot." Jon bit out, a translucent white smoke seeping out from his lips. Ser Rodrik continued to voice his disagreement, but Jon did not listen. He felt his Dovahsos churn inside him, and instinct overcame rationality. He breathed in deeply, and just as he began to charge, a Shout escaped his throat.

" _Su Grah!"_

Though loud and echoed, the Thu'um had no visible effect. To those that witnessed, it would only appear that Jon was shouting at random in his anger. But this was not the case. _Su_ and _Grah_ , Air and Battle. Jon's speed near tripled, his training swords lashing out like coiled snakes. Theon tried to guard his body, for he could do nothing else, and even that did not last. Jon smacked a quickened blade at the older boy's fingers, Theon dropping his sword in turn. Jon then ducked low as his momentum quickened still, sweeping his swords at Theon's legs, forcing the young kraken onto the floor in a heap.

Jon stopped his assault with his swords tipped at Theon. One was held at his throat, tickling his patchy beard, and the other was pointing towards his groin.

"I stand little chance, do I?" Jon asked. Theon said nothing, his eyes wide with a mix of fear, envy and hate. Below, Jon could see his lambs-wool breaches soaked in piss.

Ser Rodrik chose that moment to move. He barreled into Jon, forcing the younger boy to drop his swords. The large man had brought Jon to the dirt, and Jon felt his breath knocked away. He struggled to breath.

"What part of _stop_ do you not understand, you daft boy?" Ser Rodrik rarely raised his voice in such a manner.

Jon took a moment to regain his wind. "I refuse to allow that damned squid the satisfaction to call me as he likes in a training yard, acting like my better."

"He _is_ your better," Ser Rodrik warned, standing. He did not offer Jon a hand, so Jon stood on his own. "He is to be Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands upon the death of his father. Were you the bastard of Balon Greyjoy, you would not be able to get away with speaking to Robb like that. The same goes for Theon."

"He is _not_ my better," Jon hissed.

Ser Rodrik sighed, rubbing a glove covered hand over his face. "Get out of her Jon, you're dismissed. If you can't be reasonable then you won't be here. Return to your duties."

Jon scowled then, baring his teeth like a dog. He tossed his wooden swords to the training rack and stalked away. Theon hollered from behind him, calling him a bastard and a cunt and a eunuch. Jon was not even listening, he was more focused on calming himself. There was only one place in the whole of Winterfell that Jon could truly be calm, and so he went there.

The smithy was a sweltering room, heavy with the scent of sweat and smoke. Sounds echoed from the forge, the beating of metal on the butt of an anvil. Heavy blows were met onto a blade, unshaped and untested. Mikken Snow was the master of smith in Winterfell, and he was hard at work, Jon saw. He was an old, burly man with pale, wrinkled skin and a drooped face. His eyes were a slate blue, slightly milky from old age, and his beard was a mane of grey. He had no hair on his scalp, nor eyebrows on his face. Though he was over sixty years of age, Mikken still held corded muscles that twisted as the metal he beat sang.

"Thought you were training?" Mikken asked, not looking up. He was a simple man, his questions direct and his work was fair. He had been at the forge for over forty years.

"I was," Jon said simply, putting an apron on.

"Why aren't you there then, boy? When I was your age and in your position, I would do almost anything to train with the lord's children."

Jon knew that Mikken had been in his position; they shared blood, diluted though it may be. Mikken was the bastard brother of Eddard Starks mother, Lyarra. He had never been allowed to pick up a sword, and when he asked, he had to swear an oath before the old gods to never attempt beyond his station. The sword he was given came with a pair of blacksmith gloves, and he called the forge his home ever since.

"I just felt the need to work," Jon said, evading his question. Mikken was a man he knew and respected, and Jon did not wish to worry him with the tale of his temper.

"Fine, I care not," Mikken shoved the sword he had been beating on into Jon's hand. It was a bastard sword, heavy and long. "Take that to the grindstone and give it an edge. It's meant to be your brothers nameday gift."

Jon grunted and did just that. The grindstone stood in the corner of the room, a machine that built muscle and gave blades an edge. Jon sat and placed his feet on the pedals and began to ride. The stone wheel in front of him spun in turn, and Jon brought the blunted bastard sword to the stone. Orange sparks flew, and Jon found a calm come upon him.

He had always loved the forge. When he was Istind, it had been his family trade. The smithy was all he knew, prior to becoming known as the Dragonborn. His journeys as the Dragonborn allowed him to learn how to forge great works from a number of different resources, and he gained knowledge of techniques from foreign lands.

Upon his rebirth, Jon found himself once more brought to the forge. In this case, it was because Eddard Stark declared that Mikken would be Jon's minder, after the boar hunting incident three years prior. Mikken had had many students over the years, and quickly found himself surprised at how quickly Jon picked up the craft. Jon had decades of experience and knowledge to his name.

He was awaiting his fifteenth nameday with a bated breath. That was when Jon would become a man of Westeros, and when he would be permitted to use whatever he could find to forge a blade all his own. Already, Jon had used the coin he'd made in the forge to buy rare materials from traders that passed through winter town, preparing for that day.

Jon found himself lost in his work. The bastard sword in his hand was slowly turning an edge. When it was finished all the way through, he could see that the sun had set over head and bright stars were illuminating the dark. Mikken was no longer in the forge, likely he had left to sup with his daughter and grandchildren.

Looking towards the hall of Winterfell, Jon knew that he did not have that same option. Schedules were strict and Jon had been working too long. The door would not open and Catelyn Tully would not allow him to eat with his family.

Grunting, Jon packed his work up. The sword was racked, his aprons hung and the forge fires quenched. He made his way to the kitchens, and would have been content to eat his dinner with the staff.

* * *

 **A relatively small chapter. This was just supposed to show the way Jon reacts to Theon(who I happen to hate with a passion), and his relationships with the staff of Winterfell. Him being a blacksmith does not mean he'll mysteriously discover the secret to Valyrian steel, it just means he has options and insights that might not be obvious to other smiths.**

 **He used a two-worded shout this time; words from the Elemental Fury Thu'um. Guess what that means? He's closer to full shouts, which means he's closer to badassery. It'll happen soon enough. I don't really care about most Thu'ums, but there is one shout in particular I can't wait for him to say. As a hint, I will mention that this is a Thu'um you can't learn from Skyrim, but it is one that exists and has been used in front of the Dragonborn.**

 **These are just early life stories. That does not mean adventure-filled writing nor does it mean character development. It just means that I am showing you how his early life is going on. Sorry if you expected more.**

 **There's going to be one more of these early life bits, then the main story will occur. It's going to be unique and quite a bit different from how I normally do things. Hopefully, that will be a good thing.**

 **If you liked this story, please Favorite/Follow it and don't forget to Review!**


	4. Journey

Rare was it that Mikken Snow needed to seek council within the confines of his own work. He was a man of six and two, knew his craft better than most could ever claim, and rarely spoke besides.

But needs must, and he'd a need.

Making way through the court of Winterfell's yard, limping painfully towards his forge, his cane tapping against warm cobblestone paves. His chimney flame was covered by the billow of smoke, heat brimming and grindstone ringing through ironwood walls. It was an unusual sight for a time, to see the forge started before Mikken had come by, but it was more common to see as of late. Opening the door, Mikken took in a man at work.

Jon had grown well over these past two years. Now five and ten, he stood taller than Lord Eddard and seemed not inclined to stop growing. Black of hair, grey of eyes, coupled with his long, freshly shaven face, Jon looked a traditional Stark. His size, his almost feral demeanor, and his body, rippled with large corded muscles and scarless as it was, made the boy many a maiden's dream. Mikken knew the boy took advantage of this on the occasion, having happily wet his wick on the kitchen wenches who'd offered themselves, to the clear displeasure of Lady Stark.

But Mikken cared not for Lady Stark's disgust. He also did not care for Jon's promiscuity. These did not matter. Jon did his work and he did it damn well. And he was a man now, he could fuck whoever he wanted. No, what mattered to Mikken was that Jon was the only apprentice he could trust to take on new tasks without worry.

"Jon," he called out, the larger Snow turning away from his work as his name was called. He'd been hammering hard at an anvil, tongs holding a red-hot sheen of metal menacingly. Or at least, menacingly to anybody that didn't work the forge. To Mikken, the lad was just working his craft. By Jon's side was Korin, a farm boy of twelve that Mikken had taken a shine to a few months back.

"Mikken," nodded Jon, putting his work away. Korin seemed displeased by this. Good, the lad was eager still. "Need something?"

"Aye, lad. I do. Look at m'leg."

It was not a pretty sight. His left leg was a mangled mess, claw marks and bite scars running red through his pale skin. It was so bad that Mikken had been forced to use a damned cane by his daughter. He hated canes. Boring to make and rarely meant for an edge.

Jon's eyebrows rose, his eyes squinting. "…Wolf?"

"Dog," Mikken shrugged, sitting on a nearby stool. "M'neighbor's hunter smelled meat that I'd spilled when breaking m'fast and chose to try for a free meal this morn. I'd had m'axe on me, and made quick work of the bitch, but she did her work 'fore I did mine."

"Thought it was off that you weren't here already." Jon hummed. "You tend to be here before the roosters crow."

A statement that held true enough. He'd been trained since a boy to get up with the sun, and though he was old and slowing down, he wasn't done just yet. This injury wouldn't end him, it'd only set him back from the other side of his duties.

"As it were, it's an issue."

"You need the maester? Luwin likes you well enough, he wouldn't mind giving you some potions."

Mikken shook his head. "Mayhap I'll do so later, but that is not the problem I speak of. I was due to make way to Castle Black, remember? The Lord Commander requested twenty longswords of castle-forged steel and a hundred ingots of its make along with it."

Jon scoffed, crossing his arms. "Hard to forget. I was the one that made all those ingots."

Mikken smirked slightly, Jon glaring in turn. The forging of ingots was dull work that needed to be looked upon with a close eye. Mikken did not feel like doing so, and so had Jon show Korin how to create ingots whilst Mikken made the swords. Korin was a slow boy, likely having been dropped as a babe a time or two, and it took almost all of the hundred ingots made before the boy figured it out, to Jon's annoyance. _Better him than me_ , Mikken thought.

"I need you to take the load to Castle Black."

Jon quickly became wary. "You aren't planning on making me take the black, are you?"

Mikken shook his head. True, Mikken respected the Wall and would have been proud for Jon to join, but that was not to be. Had he wanted such, Jon would refuse. The Night's Watch was something Jon would never join – he found their oaths and laws stifling. Jon had the habit of following through with his oaths to the letter, honorable sort that he was.

No, if Mikken ever bade Jon to join, the lad would just stop being his apprentice. Not that he really was anymore. He'd mastered the smith already and had other skills besides. A deadly warrior, an able hunter, a learned man… Jon could become a maester, a sellsword, a castle smith – anything, really. Lord Robb made mention once that Jon could be his Master-at-Arms upon his becoming Warden of the North. It was an offer made in jest, and Jon took it as such, but Lord Robb also seemed serious about his proclamation.

Jon had options, none of which would involve the Wall.

"No, no Wall for you. But I meant to bring them myself. Would've too, were it not for m'leg."

"You've never done it before," Jon said, brow furrowed.

"I have. Just not when you worked under me. The older apprentices took the trips." And it need not be said that things had changed. Two months ago, Mikken's last understudy, a man of twenty named Hewnil, made arrangements to become the blacksmith for a holdfast loyal to House Flint of Widow's Watch. "You're my oldest apprentice left, and a man besides. Only man I can trust not to cock it up."

Jon's face contorted, looking thoughtful. "How long can I stay there?"

"Long as you like, I care not." Knowing Jon, he'd want to see the Wall for what it was, and that took time. The Night's Watch would welcome him, his background in the forge and arena and his being the nephew of their first ranger would give him an easy acceptance at Castle Black. They'd work him to the bone, for he was not a lord, but they'd welcome him all the same.

Added, Jon had made his intentions clear over the years. He wanted to travel before settling, should he ever settle. A trip to the Wall would start him on that path.

"Fine," Jon conceded, rolling his shoulders. "When do I leave?"

"Tomorrow."

* * *

"Ye've no chance, y'know? UH?! Do ye?! _Bastard?!_ " Shouted a man, a sword in his hand and a bloody grin on his face, teeth rotten and lips chapped. Twelve men were alongside him, surrounding Jon, jeering with their comrade. Slurs and threats of rape and slaughter loosed easily from their tongues.

Jon did not answer. He instead kept his form strong and gripped his own swords tightly, harshly holding his _Dovahsos_ back. Jon needed to keep his calm in this situation. The red rage boiling inside him would not due. Not now. Not here.

Not yet.

There were lessons to be learned when it came to being a courier. Lessons that many could glean without much issue – tricky to put into practice though they were. Lessons that Jon thought he'd learned well within the confines of his first life.

Always be wary. Keep an eye on all things. Never be far from your weapon. There were more lessons to be said and more worries to be had, but these three were the most prevalent in this line of work.

And Jon had plenty reason to be wary. He was not traveling alone like he would have preferred. Instead, he was carting Mikken's supplies with two members of the Night's Watch as entourage, along with nineteen prisoners from the South. He should have expected this, Mikken would never have made the journey to the Wall on his own. Strong though he was, he was old, and such journeys were difficult even for the young. Alas, Mikken had the habit of speaking little, and did not warn Jon until it was too late to make other arrangements.

The prisoners were the main reason for Jon's guardedness, them and the cold that could kill a prepared man were they caught unawares. Five thieves, three rapists, ten murderers, an arson and a cannibal. Their pasts were harsh and their deeds bloody, and many of them did not seem to mind their titles. They reveled in them. Only six had been regretful, all of them among the murderers. Jon had fair reason to be cautious, as did the men of the Night's Watch he traveled with.

His _Dovahsos_ was what brought him into this mess in the first place. A dragons soul was one of arrogance, arrogance that was earned but arrogance all the same. Men were but mice before him. This arrogance had him ignore the second rule of being a courier. _Keep an eye on all things_. What did he have to care when with these lesser beings?

They'd been traveling the Kingsroad for over a week, little happening. The prisoners made occasional digs from their iron-barred carriage, but that was all. Jon was quick to grow bored and offered to hunt some game. Their supplies were of salted jerks and muddled mead, bland and boring. All agreed, Night's Watch and prisoners alike, that they wanted more.

Thus, Jon did just that. He'd separated himself from the group during the night: swords at his side, bow strapped to his back and leathers doubled over. They chose to camp at the northern edge of Long Lake, meaning there were few woods to be found. This was a flatland; the game was cunning and of a stealthier lot than what could be found in the Wolfswood.

He'd not found much, just pair of rabbits and a few wild potatoes. But that was fine, they could cook a stew from that. He'd not even been gone an hour, the night still dark and stars bright overhead. Jon's return to camp was meant to be an easy thing, twenty-one men happy to have something different to sate themselves with.

This was not to be. One of the thieves broke out of their irons and freed the whole lot while he was out, when Rian, one of the men of the Night's Watch, was on watch duty. They killed Rian quickly and butchered Huller in his sleep, the other brother in black. Jon returned to the sight of thirteen of them divvying the leathers the black brothers wore, the six that had been regretful off to the side, trying to keep the horses calm. All nineteen of prisoners had a sword crafted by Mikken strapped to their sides.

 _I should have known,_ Jon thought miserably. _Should have expected this._ But he'd not, and those two men had paid his folly with their lives. Their past crimes had been absolved by the law of the land and they'd turned into honorable men. They did not deserve to die, not like this. These prisoners… They weren't worthy of the Wall. Weren't worthy of their second chance at life.

They would die.

"What're we waitin' for lads?!" The man that had been found a cannibal cried out. He'd also been the one to threaten Jon first. "Gut the bastard! I've a stomach t'fill!"

With a roar, they charged. Their rush was uncoordinated and pitifully executed, but it was dangerous all the same. Thirteen men versus one, no matter how strong the one was, brought about horrible odds. Odds that Jon made to put in his favor.

" _Tiid… Klo Ul!"_

The world took on a sheen of blue, the snow falling at the pace of a snail. His attackers were even slower. Their once threatening movements became like stone, their faces of gleeful carnage fixed. All around Jon was stilled, for time was his to make play.

Time. Sand. Eternity.

 _Slow Time_ was among his most dangerous Thu'ums, arguably the most dangerous of the lot. Against a dragon, it had no effect. A Dovah did not feel the effects of time as a mortal did, and thus was immune to this effect. But there were no dragons in this world, the closest thing to them were daedric creations of Peryite, and they'd been extinct for over a century by this point.

It was painfully easy. With his prey unable to comprehend the slowness with which they moved to Jon, he made quick work of them. He allowed his _Dovahsos_ its bounty, tearing their flesh with his blades and ripping their bodies asunder with his bare hands. Within less than a second to them, though minutes had passed for Jon, they were all dead.

Time resumed its normal course, thirteen men now bloody messes along the dirt, Jon's leather raiment stained with the smell of copper. The six who did not partake in his slaughter were stock still from their huddled position, eyes wide with fear and awe.

Jon bared his teeth, the only part of his visage that hadn't run red with blood. "Who's next?" His voice was strained, gravelly and hoarse from his use of a fully realized Thu'um, but that mattered little. Should they choose to fight, he would meet them happily.

Smartly, they did not fight. They dropped their arms and shuffled back to the caged carriage they'd been traveling in. Jon nodded, satisfied but not. That they did not attack him was the only reason he'd left them alive. He still wanted them to suffer. Punishment was still due.

As such, Jon hoisted the bodies of his quarry in their cage as well. He did not know what custom the Night's Watch held for these sorts, but they'd been bound for the Wall and they'd get there still, regardless of their being dead. For those six… to travel within the confines of such was a fitting due.

Rian and Huller, though. They were different. Men of the Night's Watch, men whose station was worthy.

Jon dug through the bodies of the thirteen and removed whatever remained of the belongings they looted from Rian and Huller. He did his best to put them back on their corpses and wrapped their bodies in the cloth of their tent. Gently, he brought their bodies alongside the ingots, surrounding their bound forms with stolen swords.

He then took the reins of the clearly addled horses and made way to the Wall, the rabbit and potatoes he'd foraged forgotten.

What a mess.

* * *

"What a mess," Lord Commander Jeor Mormont groaned, unknowingly echoing Jon's initial assessment.

"If I could have done more-" Jon started, only to be interrupted by a raised hand.

"No. You've done plenty, Snow." Jeor proclaimed, honest and forthright. "That you were able to defeat all of those men… You've a talent, lad. You'd do well in black."

Jon shook his head. "No. Mayhap when I am older, but I am young yet and have things I aim to do. Things that will take me away from the North. The Wall is not going anywhere, I've time."

"That it is not," Jeor agreed, raising a horn of mead. Jon clanged his own horn against the Lord Commanders, and the two drank slowly. From his shoulder, Jeor's pet raven crowed " _Not! Not!"_

The Wall had indeed been a sight to behold. Having never seen it before, Jon had been struck dull at its sheer scale. Seven hundred feet high and three hundred miles long, it was easily the most awe-inspiring structure Jon had ever seen. In both lives.

His arrival at Castle Black was not so awe-inspiring. Carting fifteen dead bodies, two of which were of sworn brothers of the Night's Watch, dampened many a spirit. That it was at the dead of night added to this. Ser Alliser Thorn had boldly tried to arrest Jon, accusing him of murder, but that was quick to be snuffed when Jeor held his side. The Lord Commander had come down to sort out the ruckus and brought Jon to his solar to learn his truth.

Jeor Mormont was a reasonable man, broad shouldered and host to an impressively long grey-white beard. He did not immediately jump to conclusions like Ser Alliser did, nor was he slow to move. He listened to what Jon had to say and interrogated the remaining prisoners soon after. He didn't seem to believe their tale that Jon killed the thirteen within the span of a second but did believe their proclamation that Jon only defended himself. That suited Jon fine. He'd rather not his Thu'um be known yet.

"What do you intend to do now?" Jeor asked, after having finished his horn. "Return to Winterfell?"

Jon shook his head. "No, I'd like to stay at Castle Black for a time, if you'll have me. I've not seen my uncle Benjen in years, and I wish to ask your maester some questions."

"Benjen is on a ranging. He's not expected to be back for a few months." Jeor said, sounding sorry. "And Aemon? What need of him do you have?"

"He's the oldest learned man alive," Jon offered. "My thought is that he'd have many stories to tell of the old world." That Aemon was the last Targaryen in Westeros was not needed to be said.

Jeor grunted. "As you will. I'll give you a week of leisure, then you'll work your keep. Donal Noye is our smith and armorer, he'll have work for you. Should you need him soon, Aemon can be found in the sickbay. It's the smaller tower left of the tunnel."

Taking that as dismissal, Jon stood, nodding to the Lord Commander. He walked out of the solar and breathed in the biting cold essence that was the Wall. He enjoyed the North, its climate reminiscent of Skyrim, but the Wall was another beast. He'd not acclimated yet.

 _Tower on the left_ , Jon thought, looking around the courtyard. _Tower on the left._ It was quick to be found, less of a tower and more a large stone hut built into the side of a barrack. Made of iced stone, as was all of the buildings here, its curved roof was rare to be found in the confines of Castle Black.

Jon opened the wooden door, bringing the bite of the North into the sickbay. There were two stone tables at the rooms center, walls of books surrounding them. At the back was another door, the light of a brazier flickering from beneath the doors frame. Jon walked towards it and opened the door.

Maester Aemon was lain on a large feather bed. He was an ancient man; bald and wrinkled and shrunken. If rumors were true, he was blind as well. Yet, following those same rumors, the maester's mind was still sharp, as was his hearing.

"In my old age," he wheezed. "It is easy to raise me from my sleep. I presume I am needed?"

"Not as such," Jon said, taking a seat along the foot of Aemon's bed.

"A voice I do not know," mused the maester. "A new recruit?"

"No."

"Then a stranger that shall remain such. What is it you wish?"

Jon was unsure of how to broach this talk. He genuinely had no love of Rhaegar and found his mother to have been foolish for following the long-dead prince. But family was still family, and Aemon was just that. There was much he wished to know about the Targaryen dynasty, knowledge that books alone could not offer.

"My mother intended to name me Visenya," began the Snow. Aemon blinked his milky-white eyes in befuddlement. "To go along with my half-siblings: Aegon and Rhaenys. The three heads of the dragon. And yet I was born a boy, so she named me for the North, her home."

"And your mother…" Aemon breathed, trembling.

Jon closed his eyes, letting out a deep breath. "Her name was Lyanna. Of House Stark."

Feeble though the aged maester was, he was not slow. He sat up from his bed and reached shaky hands over Jon's face, an action Jon allowed. Aemon fumbled all throughout, his eyes watering.

"If you speak the truth… No, it _is_ the truth. I feel it. Egg's nose, Rhaelle's ears, my fathers' cheeks. You've even the same slant of the brow that Jaeherys possessed. Rhaegar never visited me, but we exchanged many a letter. The last of them made tale that Lyanna was with child, that the dynasty was to grow strong once more. That the war would be over soon, and things would change at court. How have you hidden for so long, my blood? I thought you long dead."

"I inherited my mothers coloring and was raised not as a prince, but as a bastard. My name is Jon Snow. Lord Eddard claimed me as his own to protect me from the king's wrath."

"Yes…" murmured the maester. "Though my sight has since left, my ears hear much. I have heard Robert Baratheon thinks Lord Eddard a brother. More-so than his own blood-kin. Hiding you in the North was wise of Lord Stark."

There was little else to be said. Maester Aemon continued to touch along Jon's face, and Jon said nothing. Aemon was smiling widely, murmuring more connections between his appearance to that of the Targaryens. Apparently, the only thing that felt Stark was the length of his face.

"Mine own blood." Aemon said, finally removing his hands from Jon's face. "How I have long to… It is good you exist, Jon. Good indeed. A gift! I've a gift!"

"Hm?" Jon was properly confused. He'd not come for a gift of any sort. He wanted to learn history.

"Yes, a gift. Look to the windowed corner of my room – one of the floorboards has a white line on it. The plank is loose. Pull it up."

It was not easy to find. The sky was dark and the shadows of Jon's many-times uncle's brazier were deep. The white mark was hidden for Jon, taking him some fifteen minutes to discover. The mark was miniscule, a line the width of a few strands of hair. Barely visible, even in the light of day.

Jon lifted the board, and found a leather-bound package, tied by a dusty rope. He brought it into the light of flame and undid the straps. A sheathed dagger was there to be found.

"When I chose to go to the Wall to protect my brother Egg, I was given a retinue of prisoners as my guard. Among them was Brynden Rivers. He was an avid reader of Valyrian lore, some thought him a sorcerer. I did not think it, I know it – Brynden was brilliant in ways many could not hope to comprehend. Few knew this, but he loved Valyrian steel as well. He wielded Dark Sister in battle and brought it to the Wall with him. More than that, he wielded that dagger; a blade he stole from the hidden vaults of Dragonstone in the midst of the second Blackfyre rebellion. I've little need of it, and I trust my black brothers with its location even littler. None of my blood had visited me after King Maekar died, and so I had none to pass it to. Had Brynden left Dark Sister behind, I would have given its splendor to you. Alas…"

"No," Jon interrupted. "No. Do not think on what could have been. This is grand, uncle. A gift that I would have had to spend a fortune on were I to find it a seller in the natural world."

Small though it was, the rippled pattern of the blade appeared like smoke, just as Ice did. The dagger held an edge on only one side, and was curved along its other, flatter side. Its hilt was of pale ivory, the carved tooth of a dragon. Dragon bone was rare enough – coupled with Valyrian steel as it was, this gift was handsomer than anything Jon could have hoped to receive.

It was of higher quality than Jon's own sword, something he found both astounding and disheartening. His sword, named Woe, was made of an alloy he'd developed between castle-forged steel and dragonglass dust, turning the blade dark and haunting. It was molded and named after the Blade of Woe, one of his favorite weapons as Dragonborn. Though Woe did not hold any enchantments, it was still a work Jon was proud of.

"I am glad," Aemon smiled, lying down once more on his bed. "Had Rhaegar survived, you'd have daggers of this sort and more."

"But he did not," Jon said, still staring at his dagger. Mesmerized.

"No, he did not. A greater shame there was not. Still, you live, more than I could have hoped."

"Do you know of any others?" There had been tale of the two remaining Targaryen's traveling Essos.

"I know little," the maester admitted. "Of Rhaegar's siblings, news of Daenerys and Viserys has eluded me for years. Though this is well. Should I have no news, Robert Baratheon does neither. Of those that remain, there are a smattering of bastards on Dragonstone. And there is Brynden, of course."

" _What?"_ Jon blurted, eyes wide and mouth open. His eyes were trained solely on Aemon once more.

Aemon chuckled. "When I said I knew Brynden was a sorcerer, I meant it. He lives beyond the Wall, beneath the roots of a great heart tree. There he sends me dreams, dreams of the past and the present, and of futures to come. In these dreams I can see once more, in these dreams I fly as a dragon of old."

"How do you know these dreams are true?"

"I am not dull," groused the maester, easily picking out the tone of Jon's voice. Disbelieving. "Blind does not mean befuddled. Before Brynden was lost, my dreams were fleeting and easily forgetful. When he speaks to me, I remember these dreams as vividly as when my father sent me to the Citidel, as clearly as when I forged my chain. I _cannot_ forget the dreams Brynden sends me, for they are truer than much of mine own life."

Aemon paused, and then spoke again. "But Brynden is beyond my reach. I cannot touch his dreams, only he mine, and he does so less and less of late. If you wish to know more of him, seek him out yourself. Should your intentions be true, he will guide your dreams, as he does mine."

"I will." Jon swore, sheathing his newly acquired dagger to his hilt.

"Good, good. Now, I've no interest in sleep. Ask your questions and share your stories. We've a long night ahead of us, nephew."

* * *

Jon found himself in Aemon's chambers for the next three weeks. There, they spoke on much. On the history of House Targaryen and the Valyrian Empire with which it was born. On the true nature of the kings Aemon knew. Of the status of things beyond the Wall. Of the Night's Watch itself, and how the order had grown progressively worse over his years here. Their topics were varied and their opinions diverse, but both Jon and Aemon alike enjoyed this time.

During this time, Jon had indeed overstayed his free welcome. Donal Noye put him to work during the day, where Jon forged the ingots he'd brought into building materials and horse shoes and more varied weapons; axes and maces and arrow heads. He'd even aided the builders after the last of the ingots had been used, replacing nails and adjusting hinges. Of the nails that were in need of replacement, they were thrown back into the forge, turned into more ingots for future use.

Now, Jon stood tall. Above the Wall, there was nothing he was not larger than. The expansive view of what was beyond was hard to describe, but it was such that Jon could find pleasure. The lands beyond the Wall, the True North, was largely unmapped. What had been cataloged was vague and close to the Wall itself: Whitetree and Craster's Keep and Hardhome and the First of the First men. There was much more to be found, much that few knew of.

Jon was intent on being among those few.

But Brynden Rivers did not enter his dreams to guide him like Aemon said would happen. His dreams were darkness and forgetful, as they always were. After near a month at Castle Black, Jon was tired of waiting. If Brynden would not bring Jon to him, then Jon would use alternate means.

He lifted his dagger and stared at its rippling steel. He focused the whole of his sight on the material, the sheen of steel and its smoky signature. And as he focused, his thoughts were centered solely on the one who once owned this blade.

 _Brynden Rivers. Bastard of Aegon IV, the Bloodraven, Wielder of Dark Sister, Hand of Aerys I and Maekar I, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, the White Worm._

 _The Last Greenseer._

" _Yah… Zii Fron!"_

Jon's eyes, still focused on his dagger, changed. The grey of his eye encompassed the whole of his sclera, his pupil turning long and thinly slit. His dagger was a guide, and from it he saw.

A path formed in his mind. From the where he stood to where he wished to be, a cave beneath the roots of a massive heart tree where the dead cannot reach, where the Children of the Forest still roam, where an ancient man with red eyes lay trapped within a throne of roots.

 _One hundred and twenty-seven miles from my current location,_ Jon saw. _North by northwest, twelve miles southwest of the break of the Antler River._

Yah. Zii. Fron.

Seek. Spirit. Kin. These words formed the _Find All_ shout.

Miraak created this shout during his time trapped in Apocrypha. With centuries to spare and infinite knowledge at his beck and call, Miraak devoted much of his time to perfecting his usage of the Thu'um, to such an extent that he crafted shouts for the most mundane of tasks.

 _Find All_ was a shout that had the capability to do more. Hermaeas Mora had a habit of throwing Miraak all throughout Apocrypha in fits of boredom, and Miraak found no enjoyment in this. This Thu'um was formed to let Miraak find his way back to his personal nook of the realm of Oblivion. He would focus his thoughts on one of the dragons that resided in Apocrypha with this shout, for they were kin by blood if not body, and never would his way be lost.

Jon found himself gladdened to have slain Miraak. His threat to Skyrim and the whole of Tamriel was great, and the reward for defeating him was even greater. Miraak's _Dovahsos_ granted him the full bridth of his use of the Thu'um. Before, Jon – then Istind, knew the Thu'um as a means to an end. After, it was as it should have been, his very breath, more precious to him than anything else could be.

He meditated, waiting for his strength to return. It was a quick process, but his use of the Thu'um was not complete. He could shout fully now, an accomplishment Jon was happy for, but he could not use the Thu'um in succession. He could not debate in Dovahzul as he once could. His body was not ready for such strain. _Soon_ , Jon thought.

When he recovered fully, he rushed over the edge of the Wall and jumped with a gladdened shriek. The biting cold felled his core deeply, the rush of wind billowing his person. The ground was fast approaching, as was his demise.

" _Feim!"_

Fade.

His body took on a translucent, ethereal nature. The wind was no longer felt, the cold no longer cold. He felt nothing, not even the ground he'd slammed into. Snow did not buffet with his landing, instead it held him as if he were one of the flakes it was made of. As if her were lighter than the snow itself.

He wouldn't have had to do this if Jeor would have just let him travel beyond the Wall. But no, Jon was not a lord of the North and was not a man of the Night's Watch. Jeor forbid it, and Jon did not take it well. Dragons were not meant to be kept, not when they did not wish it so.

The power of Feim faded, and Jon felt the cold and the wind once more. He shouldered his belongings, kept his hand on his blades, and trekked to the Haunted Forest.

He'd a relative to find.

* * *

 **Hah, y'all thought this was dead. Nope, I'm just lazy.**

… **Not sure which is worse in your minds. Ah well, new chapter, over a year-and-a-half late, but who's counting? Not I.**

 **The journey of Jon Snow continues once again! We are now beyond the Wall, where magic is still abound and the forces of Molag Bal are found. Much has happened, but little has been stated as fact. There's a lot that can occur during the time between now and the next chapter, and I'm not even certain as to what the next chapter will be based around. We'll see soon enough. Maybe. Hopefully.**

… _ **Possibly.**_

 **Oh, and Jon can now use full Thu'ums. But his body isn't trained in their usage, so he can only use them one at a time. That'll change going forward.**

 **And if you ask why he's so big, I'll just say it's a Dragonborn thing. A man with the soul of a dragon is compensated with the largest size he is capable of. I'm aware that the canon Jon Snow was not an especially tall kid. This is not canon. Thus, idc.**

 **If you liked this story, please Favorite/Follow and don't forget to Review!**


	5. Child

Garamun knew not who was fool enough to light a fire in the middle of the Haunted Forest. He cared not either. Fire meant food, and fire also meant a fool.

In the True North, fires needed to be carefully controlled. From young, it was taught to only light a fire when in the company of your clan, or when in the comfort of a cave. Caves masked the smoke and drowned out the crackle, leaving little trail for scavengers such as Garamun.

To be a scavenger beyond the Wall was often a life that was short to last. Garamun was one of the few that lasted. Truly, the only reason he'd been able to live this long was due to Hund, a snow bear he'd warged into whilst a cub. Hund had carried his sorry arse over the three years they'd been bound and found food enough for him to live. And it was by way of Hund that Garamun knew the fire was not owned by a wandering clan. The scent on the smoke spoke of a single soul, a soul that would soon join the Old Gods, whose supplies would nourish the scavenger skinchanger.

Creeping low, furs matching the pale blue sheen of ice and snow, mudded and dirtied to blend with the bark of ironwood trees, they made their way towards the camp. Truly, this man was a fool. He'd sat himself against the flush of a weirwood, his legs buried below its roots. A curious type of shelter, and also halting. The man would not move fast enough to struggle through his end.

This suited Garamun just fine. Not only would his need be easier to meet, but the man was of a larger sort. Garamun was small all his own, standing only a hair over five feet, and this man seemed plenty bigger. Might be he could give Tormund Giantsbane a challenge.

Hund snorted by his side, intent on feasting. Garamun had never entered the bears skin when men were to be the meal, and he'd no intention to. That way lay too close to the Thenns for his liking.

Patting the bears flank, Garamun gave a single clap that let Hund know it was time. The bear charged, roaring loudly, and the man's eyes opened quickly. Grey eyes met the quickening approach of Hund, and yet, there was no panic.

" _Fus…"_ What? _"RO DAH!"_

From his lips, a concussive blast of _something_ came forth, sending Hund flying ass-backwards into the branches of a tree some fifty feet behind. Garamun, while not in line of the attack, was staggered still, knocked onto his side.

 _What?!_

As Garamun struggled to catch his footing, the man did stand. He was indeed big, over six feet, though Garamun did not know by what margin.

He approached and Garamun scrambled away, falling onto the snow once more. He crawled backwards, the man's approach not stopping, and stopped only when his balding head met the root of an ironwood.

The man crouched in front of Garamun some two feet away, a knife of rippling metal in his hand, grey eyes hard. "Now, what was that all about? Speak truly, else you'll not be able to speak another lie." He spoke with the accent of a southerner, his voice gravelly and his threat true.

Gulping, Garamun stuttered his words. "T-there was a-a fire! Nobody's f-fo-ool 'nough t' light one h-here! Not without a cla-n. I th-thought you was a fr-ree meal."

The man hummed, weighing Garamun's words. Then he nodded shortly and twirled his knife casually. "Fine. How'd you get the bear to listen to you?"

"I'm a- skinchanger. I-I can see through H-unds eyes." And feel him. Hund was regaining his equilibrium. He'd soon be upon this man once more. Whatever he did, he must have channeled the power of the Old Gods through him. But he was no longer attached to that weirwood. It shouldn't work twice.

It could have been seen as sacrilege to attack somebody that embodied the power of the gods. But Garamun was desperate, and more than that he cared little for the gods. All that mattered was surviving, and weirwood trees did little of that for him. He could not use their branches for firewood, and their faces pierced his soul. He liked them none.

"Skinchanger, mm?" He looked intrigued. Good, maybe Garamun could use that. "Tell me, have you ever heard the name Hircine before?"

He'd not. But something about the word seemed to resonate with him, the name both fond and foreign in his mind. There was a natural wildness in that name that held his interest, and yet Garamun felt dirty for even thinking on it. Like he was not worthy. How strange.

"No? Well, I suppose that makes sense. He's not the type to offer gifts to just anybody. How'd you become a skinchanger? Is it a learned skill?"

Garamun shook his head, feeling a tad more confident now that he spoke on a topic he knew. "Skinchangers 'r born, not learned. I was born with it, same as me ma. Shows up in folk at random, bein' truthful. Me brother wasn't one."

"Ah, that makes sense. Like how lycanthropy can be passed down to children…" He hummed, nodding. "And how does skinchanging work?"

His confidence shot even higher as he felt Hund approach. "Like this." His eyes rolled into his skull, and from the darkness that was his body, he could _see._

To warg was to be human and beast all the same, and yet separate. Garamun was not strong enough to handle multiple skins, but Hund was a fine catch still. They shared their feelings with one another, knew how to best help one another. Though Hund could not take his skin, he'd gained habits from Garamun. He knew how to gather firewood and understand the language of men and could differentiate between rotted foods and clean ones, unlike unattached snow bears. For Hund, being partner to Garamun was useful. It let him live longer.

And to Garamun, being partner to Hund was survival.

He took the form of his bear and barreled through. In this skin, he was larger than the man by half, twice as quick too. It was jarring to see him threatening his body, but that threat would soon end.

The threat did end. Not in the way Garamun would have wished.

The man craned his neck, noting the bear advancing, and buried his dagger into the skull of Garamun's true body. Garamun felt his mind sear, his soul thrashing as man and beast become one and the same, for there was nothing to separate them now. Rage overtook rationality. There was no point in vengeance, only survival. That had always been Garamun's creed.

But he'd never died before. Few could ever claim to have felt it, and all were madder than a hungry Thenn. Garamun was no exception, for he _understood_. The large man standing over his corpse was his true enemy, and nothing would stop Garamun from killing him.

" _Gol… Hah Dov!"_ Shouted the man, a yellow-green energy sifting from his mouth, enveloping Garamun.

It mattered little. Nothing would stop Garamun from ending his enemy-

…Ene-…

En-…

…

… _Master._

What a fool Garamun was. This man could never be his enemy, not when he owed him so much. Master sheltered Garamun as a child, gave him food and water and home. He'd helped him tame Hund in the first place! It was only natural for master to give Garamun the chance to be stronger than ever. Hund was his truest chance to be powerful, to escape the weakness of his human form, and master offered him his salvation.

Master approached, and Garamun bowed, awaiting orders.

No orders came. Master walked towards the weirwood he'd rested upon and gathered his things, returning to Garamun's furred flank. He mounted Garamun's back, pulling at the fur on his scalp, positioning him northward.

Garamun happily made his way into the unknown, content in knowing that he was of aid to his master.

* * *

Winterfell was dreary as of late.

Catelyn oft found this to be a common. The North was a dreary place all its own, with plains too large and peoples too spread out, halted by harsh weather and forests aplenty. To combat the drear of the North meant much to its peoples, and so they stuck to one another boldly, forming kinships readily. The bond of a Northman was greater than that of the south, that much was known well.

To Catelyn, the best way to beat back Northern drear was not to make merry with strangers, but to keep family close, to keep her blood and their smiles all in one space. It filled her with a warmth she'd not ever truly known, not when she was a Tully at Riverrun certainly. Motherhood was a blessing, she learned. It brought about the best in her.

But the drear of the North had a sullen tang to it this past week, her husband and children and servants sorrowful. She knew why, everybody knew why.

Catelyn just could not meet the energy to care that the bastard decided to galivanting beyond the Wall, hunting for Dark Sister, the Valyrian steel sword of the Targaryen's. A fanciful dream that was like to not be fulfilled. Why in the seven hells would she care? He was her shame, the shame of her husband. Better he be gone, far from Winterfell where he might usurp Robb. Whether he was beyond the Wall, the marches of Dorne, the reaches of Essos, it did not matter. He was gone and she was content with it.

Motherhood brought about the best in Catelyn. It also brought about her worst.

She never liked Jon Snow, all knew this. He was the child born between her husband and another woman. That he'd been born was not her reason to dislike him; bastards were commonbred during war, and Ned wed her for an army. Theirs was not a union of love but of duty, a duty that love was formed from later on. But Ned cared fiercely for this unnamed woman, fierce enough to raise the bastard among his own trueborn children.

Catelyn tried to have the boy go away many-a-time. He was a large, strong child, he'd do well with a fostering. Catelyn would have rather Jon Snow not be given such a station, but better he leave than stay. Ned was not of the same mind. _He is my blood_ , he would say. _The pack stays together._ Ned didn't understand. The bastard was reckless, dangerous.

She remembered well the many times he'd nearly gotten her children killed. At ten, he took Robb hunting in the dead of night. At eight, he'd tried to show Sansa how to use a knife, somehow convincing the girl to keep one strapped her thigh. At twelve, he'd stolen Arya away for three days, returning only because they'd run out of supplies. On and on, from cheering Bran's climbing to throwing Rickon higher and higher like a sack of potatoes, barely catching him, to showing all Catelyn's children the flames of the forge- Jon Snow was a danger to her children, and yet…

Yet, they loved him.

Robb, her firstborn boy, who once was filled with so much life, seemed lost to the world. He went about his tasks and did as bade, but there was no fight in him, no enthusiasm. Jon Snow was his counter, and Robb did not know how to act without him.

Arya was far worse. Her wild, wolfblooded girl cried a constant stream, hiccupping and sad and unwilling to show any level of decorum. It had always been difficult to get her to do her stitches, now it was a nightmare.

Bran did not keep to his lessons either. He would climb the tallest of Winterfell's towers, stay up there all day, looking for his half-brother from high up. He'd made a habit of stealing Maester Luwin's spyglass of late, hoping to see Jon from afar.

Rickon was too young to truly understand, a boy of only four, but he picked up on the mood of Winterfell and liked it little.

And Sansa… she was not as Catelyn had expected. Sansa was her double, a girl that looked her mother reborn. There was little of Ned in her. Sansa was to be a southron lady, mayhap a queen. But Jon Snow had treated her boldly, bolder than even her father did, and over time Sansa had grown to keep his council. Without him, without his barbs and japes and habit of hauling her over the shoulder on an adventure of some kind, Sansa was quiet. Quieter than she'd ever been. She did not talk to Jeyne Poole or Septa Mordane or Arya or even Catelyn herself. It was in her silence that Sansa's resemblance to her father bled through, and Catelyn found little pleasure in it. Ned's quietness was among his least likeable habits.

Ned was perhaps the worst of them.

Eddard Stark was rare to show emotion. He was a wall of ice, stern when needed and fair when felt. The perfect Warden of the North. And yet, upon receiving the letter from Castle Black, words penned by Lord Commander Jeor Mormont, telling tale of a note left to Maester Aemon, a note that said the bastard made to find Dark Sister from beyond the Wall, Eddard broke.

He shook bodily and palmed his eyes to hide their wetness. He did his duty, as he always did, but spent his personal time within the Winterfell crypt, demanding none disturb him. She did not follow, but she stayed close, and could hear well the echo of his wails, his asking for forgiveness for breaking a promise.

It had been a week and Catelyn was tired of it all. Tired of the sadness, of the tears, of the rage. Jon Snow was gone, as she'd always wished he would be. And with his leaving, her family was hanging by a ledge. Her blood was here, yet their smiles gone.

She knew not what to do.

She could only hope that time would bring her family back together. That their smiles would return, without the bastard to bring them.

And should they not…

For perhaps the first time in her life, Catelyn wished Jon Snow to return to Winterfell.

* * *

Jon's throat hurt.

There was little need to wonder on why that was. He knew that his use of the Thu'um was still immature, and yet he'd used two taxing shouts all the same. Better he be alive with a pained throat than dead though. He'd no clue what would happen to him should he die. Would he return to Evergloam? Or would he be prey to the machinations of the other Princes? It begged not to think on it, not until his end was truly in sight.

The use of Unrelenting Force was instinctual more than anything. Though it'd been fifteen years since he'd lived as Istind Hearthome, the mannerisms of his old life bled through. Istind did not handle being startled well, neither did Jon.

Being awoken by a bear intent on running him through meant the use of Unrelenting Force was well earned. It was lucky he was a light sleeper, else he might have actually died. Bears were nothing to scoff at.

The usage of Bend Will was a whim more than anything. The only reason he'd been in that original state, resting within the roots of a tree as he had, was because he'd been greedy. He'd thought to hunt his way through the Haunted Forest and hunt he did. To the point that his stomach bulged and with it a tiredness came upon him. He'd thought he was made of stronger stuff, but his body was still young and able to overcome his mind. Without meaning to, he'd fallen asleep whilst digging for sap. Weirwood sap had a pain reliving property to it – used effectively meant he'd be able to ignore his need for sleep for a time.

Jon knew he'd need more than a few sleepless nights to reach Brynden Rivers. Lessons to be relearned, he'd not ever forget a third time. A bear that he could use as a mount, that would also loyally stay awake to the point of death, was well worth the strain on his throat.

It still hurt.

But his hurt was leaving. Three days it had been since he'd dominated Garamun's will, and they were nearing his quarry. His mind was clear on his path. A great heart tree stood over a caved hill, sat in the midst of an empty clearing. That was his goal. Ironwood trees were becoming scarcer as he rode, as were weirwoods. They were close. Perhaps only an hour or two out.

But night was upon them, as was a snowstorm. Blizzards in the True North were not to be trifled with. Jon was uncertain that even _Lok Vah Kor_ would be able to keep it at bay. Garamun knew of a nearby cave to take refuge in, and Jon felt inclined to follow his mount's wisdom.

It was still a strange feeling, Garamun. Bend Will, when used on animals, allowed Jon to gain glimpses of their thoughts. When used on a man, Jon could order them fully. But Garamun was an animal with the mind of a man. This led to a newness, an animal that Jon could fully read and order. A perfect combination. It made his journey easy, and he'd not felt a lick of shame about it. Garamun meant to kill him. Now he'd die in Jon's service.

He was close to death now, Jon hadn't allowed him must respite. He pushed the bear hard, harder than a horse certainly, and fed him little. And still, Garamun was loyal.

His bear brought him to the cave, more a crack nooked within the side of a hill. The cave was small but seemed endless, a winding tunnel of sleet and stone that burrowed deep in the earth. There were many caves such as this beyond the Wall, though this was different in a way. There had been no trees atop its hill, nothing for roots to burrow through, yet there were roots all the same within its confine, thicker than even Garamun was.

Curious, Jon had Garamun keep watch to the front whilst he continued through the path. He kept his eyes sharp and used his Daedrend, his Valyrian steel dagger, to mark the walls, so he'd not be lost through its winding halls. A stick lit by his _Yol_ kept torchlight for him.

He'd searched for hours and hours, finding little but enjoying much. There was something about this type of exploration that had Jon jolly. The further Jon went, the more claustrophobic things got. That only served to have him search harder. Then, he'd found a small indentation in the hall of white roots curled around a hole, barely large enough for him to crawl. He palmed his dagger strictly, the white of his knuckles apparent through his pale skin, and made his way through the tunnel.

" _Paar,"_ he intoned, the darkness of the tunnel turning bright. Seek. A word of power that allowed Jon the ability to view the night as if it were day, the darkness as if it were light. As a counter, should he have used Paar in this manner under the light of the sun, the world would be blinding.

But now Jon could understand the winding path of the hole he travelled, the curve of the still thickening roots. They weaved a way of left and right, of ups and downs, never allowing Jon his respite. He did not want any, being truthful. Should it be needed, he could easily escape this tunnel, could destroy these rocks with but the tip of his tongue.

And yet, he did not. The tunnel grew wider, allowing him to stand, and a hall of human and animal bones, of stalactites and stalagmites, of carved symbols painted into stone sides became his to see. Ancient depictions of men and giant and child fighting against creatures of frozen evil were prevalent, stories of the elderly becoming trees, tales of a vast Wall being built with clasped hands.

"Rare is it, that we have guests. Rarer that we do not expect such." A high-pitched, accented voice said from the high corner of the hall, somehow coming off as male. Jon looked towards the voice. A being of nut-brown skin dappled with white spots like that of a deer was his to behold, his large furred ears further enforcing the deer comparison. Big gold-green eyes that were slitted like a cat's stared down pointedly, needle-like teeth bared as short black claws were held out in a defensive stance.

Jon knew this to be a Child of the Forest. And more than that, he knew this to be a different creature all-together, one thought extinct from the world of Nirn.

A Dwemer.

The Dwemer were a curiosity of Jon's. He'd visited many of their strongholds during his years as Dragonborn and gained much insight into their personage and culture as a result. Contrary to popular belief, they were not atheistic. They did indeed hold worship, but theirs was not the worship of the Aedra or Daedra or Numidium as many believed. The Dwemer worshipped Nirn itself, depicting the planet as a god in its own right. Their mechanical wonders were an attempt to match the splendor they held Nirn to, each failure bringing them further in awe of the planet they called home. The Children of the Forest did not hold the technical mastery that the Dwemer did, and Jon thought he knew why. Nocturnal said they'd taken samples from all the races of Nirn to place in this world, though she never said when.

The Children must have been taken before the Dwemer gained their mastery of Nirn. Before Azura ended their race to all but one.

"I did not mean to come by this path," Jon said. "I meant to arrive the next morn, at the cave beneath the heart tree."

"And how you know about such begs further question," the Child murmured, not moving from his position. "That is the main entrance to our home, but we've dug tunnels enough to get around, tunnels such as this. How do you know of our abode?"

"I saw it."

"You are a greenseer?" The Child gasped, hopping down to search Jon over. He was just under four feet tall, his clothes made of bone ivory and stitched plant vines.

"No, my magic is not of that sort. I search for a greenseer, though. Brynden."

The Child was on guard once more, his enthusiasm quickly gone. "The three eyed raven is not one to take guests. Nor are my kin. Should we have wanted you to come, you would know."

Jon sheathed his dagger, making to look unthreatening. "And yet, I am here, knowing where he resides."

"Which should not be," the Child stated. "Beyond the Wall, we see all. The forest is our sight and the wind our ears. How your intentions have not been made known eludes me."

"I do not know either," confessed Jon. The Children of the Forest should have been able to find him easily. He'd slept in a weirwood tree! "But it matters little. I am here to see Brynden."

The Child narrowed his eyes further, looking contemplative and wild all the same. "He's not had a guest in… many years, human. What is it you seek?"

"Knowledge. History. Truth. And with those, I intend to wield his blade."

The Child did not appear happy, though he did not appear angered either. Decidedly neutral, the Child hummed a tune. "Your words ring true, if not complete. Fine, I shall be your guide and guard. Give me your arms. None visit our rest with such."

"…Very well. I am Jon Snow. You name?"

"The name you give is of the same. Ringing true, but not complete. My own name in the True Tongue is too long for the mouths of men. _Give me your arms._ "

Jon did so, nonplussed. If the Child's name could not be stated, then he'd give him one. Twig, decided. The Child would be called Twig. Twig strapped Woe to his back and held Daedrend in his hand. Jon's other weaponry, a dirk of castleforged steel and Garamun's axe, were left behind.

The Child then moved, a quick skip that seemed patternless but held purpose, and Jon followed. Through tunnels they went, winding ways where bone and dust grew thicker, where roots were so great that their gnarls formed furniture their own. More Children came into sight as they travelled, curious but unwilling to do anything save look on.

Then, they arrived.

It was a curiously circular room, wide in its space though cluttered. Bones of giants and humans and the Children littered the floor, animal bones such as dire wolves and shadow cats doing the same. Along the walls where the roots were thinnest the Children did stare, whispering to one another in a sad, beautiful language that held a power its own. If Dovahzul was of the sky, then the True Tongue was of the earth.

And at the roots sat Brynden, Jon's quarry. He'd the look of an old man, as was expected. An albino, his snow-white skin and piercing red eyes were unnerving. Wrapped around the roots of the heart tree, only his arms and head visible, he was little threat. And yet, Jon was wary still. This was the territory of Brynden, where he was strongest, and Jon had given up his arms. Anything could happen.

Brynden held his gaze silently, only looking away when Twig approached, holding out Daedrend. The ripple of its metal brought out a glint of recognition in the greenseer, and he nodded his head shortly, his left hand flicking thrice against the bark. The Children scattered, leaving Jon and Brynden alone.

"Only once have I not been able to see a man since I took my place 'neath these roots," Brynden began. "Only once. And she were mine own lover."

"I known not who you speak," Jon noted. "And I certainly come not for that."

A wheezing laugh escaped the mouth of the elder. "I know that much, though we would be unable had you done so. This is the first I've seen your face, yet I know you still, Jon Snow. I've seen your family, seen what was meant to be. You were meant to take the black."

"Never." Jon swore. He'd only offered Jeor a possibility out of politeness. The Night's Watch was not in the cards for Jon Snow. He refused.

"Yes… I see that now," Brynden chortled. "I've seen much and little. And of that I've witnessed, the changes you've wrought to the future are the most visible. Mild these ripples are, yet you'll soon throw boulders into the waters I look upon should your path continue."

And then, Brynden grinned. " _Wonderful._ The future was bleak to look upon. Now I have much to hope for. _We_ have much to hope for."

Jon did not know how to take such. He did not know what to say at all. And so, he kept his silence, unwilling to ruin the good will the greenseer seemed to hold.

"Allow me to introduce myself properly, Jon Snow. I am Brynden Rivers, the three eyed raven, the last greenseer. And yet, these titles matter little to you, for you know them well. Allow me one that you'd know clearer."

He hummed, and the roots encompassing his body opened, revealing a grotesque image to behold. There was no body 'neath his rib, his gut and legs and cock missing. Where they were meant to be, sat along the ridge of his spine, an orb of red pulsed, mist-like blood making up the contents of its glass.

"I am Brynden Rivers. Champion of Vaermina and Wielder of her Orb."

* * *

 **Not gonna lie, this bit about Brynden came to me as I was about to finish off the scene. And I was like,** _ **It's perfect!**_ **For those that don't know, Vaermina is the Daedric Prince of Dreams and Nightmares and the Orb of Vaermina allows its user to scry. The three eyed raven is the perfect person for her to name champion. And now, Jon has somebody that at least knows of the daedra to deal with. Hopefully it'll lead to some fun interactions.**

 **That first scene was just a bit of fun. It didn't make sense that Jon just walk around, he needed a mount of some kind. Garamun was an easy target, and he earned no sympathy. Plus, I got to show how ruthless Jon can be. Not in the physical sense, but in his willingness to dominate others.**

 **And we've got a Catelyn that is pissy about Jon leaving and doesn't like that she's pissy about the thing she's wanted all his life. Conflicting mindsets are her bread and butter.**

 **Was genuinely surprised this was so easy to bust out. Took the better part of my morning. I guess I'm hyped for S8 of GoT. Well, y'all ain't gonna complain.**

 **If you like this story, please Favorite/Follow and don't forget to Review!**


	6. King

Jon tensed at Brynden's proclamation, backing away. He cursed his decision to allow the Children his arms, now he'd only the Thu'um to use as defense, and his throat was still in a poor way.

" _How?_ " He demanded, fists clenched.

As if unconcerned by the man before him, Brynden chuckled, the roots that concealed his mangled remains returning to their positions, leaving the greenseer looking trapped once more. "The same way as you, I would imagine. She came to me."

" _That is not what I meant!"_

Brynden frowned, clicking his tongue. "More dragon than man, it appears. Little interest in the nuances of conversation."

" _BRYNDEN!"_ Jon's paranoid rage was quick to grow. The translucent smoke of a soon-to-be-used Thu'um billowed from his mouth. The cavern shook with his anger, and the sounds of the Childrens fear echoed.

The albino ancient gave a sigh. "Answers cannot be given in a state of wroth, Jon Snow. Calm your spirit and ask your questions. You shall hear no lies from my person, but you shall hear nothing at all in this state."

It was a struggle to do. His _Dovahsos_ was hard to hold back, especially in this circumstance. One sentence and Jon felt the grip of the world over his shoulders. Was Brynden of Tamriel?

Minutes passed, the mist of his mouth turning smaller and smaller, 'till none remained. Jon sat himself on a thick rot of weirwood, holding his head in his hands. During this time, a pair of roots made their way to Jon, a bowl of salt and a piece of bread in their tendrilled grasp. Genially, Jon dipped the bread into the salt and ate of it. Guest right was now proclaimed, and his fears fully removed.

"How did you become her Champion?"

Brynden hummed. "The Lady of Dreams and Nightmares is one whose power is subtle and hard to comprehend. Due to this, of the few that know of the daedra, secretive as they rightly are, fewer still know of her work. When I was a young man, my father sent me to Raventree Hall, the castle that my mother, Melissa Blackwood, once called home. There, I touched my first true weirwood, there I discovered my sight. It had been a thousand years since the last greenseer had been born amongst men, and my Mistress happened to have been watching our world at the time. Curious, she visited my dreams, questioned my judgements, and found her liking. The mouth of the heart tree opened, and her Orb was loose upon its tongue."

Jon mulled over the greenseer's words, nodding slowly. Brynden was not of Tamriel. Jon truly was a unique existence. "But how did you know of _me_?"

"My sight allows me glimpses into what may be, and when coupled with the Orb I can scry all involved, even should they be far from a weir. The Jon Snow I foresaw in the beginning was meant to be the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, later King in the North and rider to dragon. A great man he would be. I grew curious years after you were born, wanting to know what you were like _now,_ so I searched for you, scryed you with the Orb, and yet you were hidden."

Brynden's one-eyed stare was hard. "To hide from the Orb should be impossible. The only time I was not able to see a person was in the case of my sister and lover, Shiera Seastar. I later learned she'd taken worship of the Lady of Whispers, her seductive and murderous nature appealing, and the Webspinner keeps her court selfishly. Only one of the Princes can hide a person from the Orb, and so I know you've taken to one."

"Mephal-"

" _DO NOT!"_ Brynden shouted, the Children rushing into the room with bone and dragonglass weapons at the ready. Twig held Daedrend as if it were a sword. One of the other Children palmed Woe. Brynden hacked out a wheezing cough, struggled to regain his calm. "…Do not speak her name. Names have power, and the power of the Princes birthed this world. They will know. The Spinner especially, for each use of her name adds a string to her web."

He tapped at the root once more with his hands, looking at the Children with irritation. They felt his silent message, and scampered off, nervous. Only one remained, looking defiant. A female Child taller than Twig was holding a sword of smoke and steel. _Dark Sister._

"…If that's the case," Jon slowly began, his eyes trailing from the sword back to Brynden, again and again. "Then why has the Huntmaster not taken to me yet? I spoke his name when I tamed my bear."

"The Father of Wargs cares little for the men of this world," wheezed Brynden, his outburst still harsh on his person. He shooed the last Child away, Dark Sister leaving with her. "They do not pray to him, nor do they hunt in his name. His name has been distorted, the Free Folk using it for their own young. Though those boys always die gruesomely for their unknown slight, it remains that speaking his name is oft safe. Certainly not _smart_ , mind."

"But such things matter little in the now," Brynden said, looking at Jon speculatively, having noted his interest in the Valyrian steel sword. "Your own Prince, who would it be? The Pestilence, for your father, for the dragons that might spawn from you? The Glister Witch, for your future role against the living dead? The-"

"Night," Jon cut. If the names of the Princes were dangerous to speak, using their titles would be such as well. "The Night. I am Champion to Nocturnal."

Speaking those words aloud seemed to make the hovel grow darker, the shadows of the room warping around Jon's own shadow, a cold and dark hug that spoke of pride and punishment. This was the first time he'd verbally acknowledged his position regarding her in these past fifteen years.

"Unexpected," Brynden commented, white roots idly scratching at his chin as if they were his own hands. "That you were the follower of a Prince was my expectation, perhaps even a favored. Champion, though? And to the Night Mistress? You've not the build of her thieving subjects, nor the subtleness expected of such a station. I feared the Lord of Domination or the Prince of Plots held sway over you. This is welcome and more. Unexpected indeed…"

Jon knew this. He'd been a terrible Champion to Nocturnal, his loud and bumbling self going against much of her systems. And yet, she chose him. Whether it was for the sake of entertainment or something else, she chose him. She was the one to give him this second chance. He knew not what to do with it, but he was thankful all the same.

"Alas, we have been distracted." Brynden mused, nodding slightly. "You come to me as guest, and I have accepted you. You've ate of my bred and of my salt. What is it you wish?"

"Originally," Jon began. "I made to gain knowledge and Dark Sister. Uncle Aemon spoke that you knew the past, and I wished to relearn the secret of forging Valyrian steel. Now… Now I wish far more. Knowledge of this world, of those that worship the Princes, of the Children, of the Others, of the Valyrian's – I wish to know much and more that I do not yet know I wish."

"A tall order," Brynden frowned, looking out towards an opening where the night was plain to see. "A tall order indeed. On the 'morrow, as we break our fast, we shall speak. Now… Night is upon us, and in my old age I've need of sleep more than you. It has been an exciting day. Allow me my respite."

Jon nodded, he needed to sleep too. His day had been one of hard rides and crawling through tunnels. Speaking of rest had Jon into his own.

Twig returned then – Brynden must have summoned him. He held Jon's hand within his four-fingered claws and brought him into the tunnels, towards a clearing he'd not seen. The Children were there, staring at him in fear and curiosity and sadness, sitting on heavy leaves of red strewn along inlets of stone. A few were large enough to hold a man, and Twig brought Jon to one such firth.

His sleep was quick to take him.

* * *

A fog of blackness creeped along Jon's body, his skin turning paler than pale, his flesh falling into a painless heap, grinding and squishing into a sphere, mist pouring out.

From the darkness, a figure grew. A figure he knew well. The black fog turned liquid, bubbling into the form of a raven the size of a mammoth with wings stretched wide, purple slit eyes looking down balefully.

"My Mistress," Jon knelt. Tried to kneel. He could not move his body as he wished, could not feel it being truthful.

" _You've claimed me,"_ the raven said, voice feminine. It was wondrous and terrible all the same, just as the night itself was. _"You called yourself Champion. As it is. As it should be."_

" _Years have I wished you to say such. To acknowledge such. I gifted you with power, I allowed you this life, and only now do you announce to the world what you are. My delight knows no bounds, Istin- No…_ _ **Jon**_ _."_

The ravens feathers fell through, and yet there was no featherless bird to behold. A voluptuous woman of crow-black hair and pale fair skin lay beneath the feathers, a robe of dark grey lace gilded in silver adorner her person.

"I am blessed by your coming."

" _My kin know of you now, my child."_ Nocturnal announced. _"They know that I have named Jon Snow my Champion. They do not know of your past, do not know you are Dragonborn, but they are ever watchful. A shadow is not meant to be seen."_

She grabbed Jon's body, his mist-like form, and her hands bled a violet essence, his mist changing color to match, soon returning to his pale state, the smallest change in its coloration visible only to the Princes on high. Had he been able to feel, he would he screamed all throughout. The change she wrought upon him was not of the kind sort.

" _I have returned your power through me, that and more. I hide you from their gaze, Jon Snow. I hide your actions from their hungry eyes. I hide your dreams from Vaermina's grip._ _ **You are mine**_ _. In doing this, their interest might further be piqued, but they shall not know where you be. Be clever, be quiet, be the night. Wear your allegiance to me as the honor it is."_

"What of mine other Mistresses?" Jon asked. "What of Azura and Meridia."

A deep noise rumbled from her throat, both purr and growl. " _Azura has gifted her Star anew to a mortal Champion bred of Nirn, your own second child. Be proud in your legacy. Meridia has hidden Dawnbreaker again, as she is wont to do. Call upon them as you wish, for your soul is no longer theirs to barter."_

With that, she dropped him. His soul and flesh and person fell into the endless void that was her sphere, and Jon Snow knew nothing more.

* * *

He awoke with a startled scream, his voice echoing through the halls of the Children's home. Sweat bled down his brow, and Jon wiped it away with a panted breath. He stank of fear and confusion, stank of _magic._

Jon knew this scent well. When Nocturnal first named him Champion, he'd been given her power, Shadowstalk. It held this scent as well, and in this second life he'd been born without.

But it felt stronger. More… He didn't know the words. There was something new about this, new and the same and seemingly more.

There would be time to experiment later, however. Now he was awake. Light filtered through the caves, small pocks of the sun blaring from the ceiling, intricate mirrors reflecting sunlight into the room.

Jon stood and stretched, falling to the floor to push his body upwards with his arms and legs. Then he left for the main cavern, where Children ate bowls of beef and broth. Garamun was here too, languidly chewing on a bloody bone.

In the morn, when the sun shone even in this cavern, Jon was able to truly see Brynden. Pale and skeletal, there was a scarred red blotch on the side of his neck and cheek. Leaves sprouted from his skull, mushrooms growing across his body, and dirt and dust thick in his hair. He'd half-morphed into the weirwood roots that surrounded him.

A Child gave Jon a bowl of his own and directed him to a gnarled stool of weir to Brynden's right. Jon took his seat and began to eat, and Brynden then spoke.

"I wish you a good morn, Jon." Rasped his elder. "Where would you like to begin?"

"Begin with what?" Jon asked, his brow furrowed as he chewed hard. The meat was gamey and rare, not to his preference.

"When last we spoke, I said I'd tell you as you wished. My fast has been broken already, and I've much time to spare. Ask what you wish to know, and I will tell tale."

"Valyrian steel," was Jon's quick response. He'd been curious of the stuff ever since Lord Eddard allowed him and Robb to look over Ice. Unbreakable steel that never lost an edge was certainly to his preference.

"Ah… Yes, we've a similar mind on the subject. The steel is a wonder all its own. Hm... We shall begin with its creation. To create Valyrian steel anew is no longer possible, I'm afraid. Mores the shame. It was crafted of obsidian and the heart of dragons, forge flames trickled in ground dragons' bones. The Prince of Pestilence brought dragons to this world, and so the molten steel need be quenched in his curse, waters infested in greyscale, giving it its rippling texture. The Valyrian's originally would craft their steel from their own fallen dragons, these arms and objects of vanity being their family pride. When they slew dragons of enemy families, often killing those enemy families as well, they made steel from those dragons and sold the wares as a final act of disrespect."

"Including Ice?" Jon asked, surprised. The history on how House Stark gained Ice was little known to the northern bastard. That it was bought was expected, but that the sellers sold it with such mindsets… Jon liked it little.

Brynden shook his head. "A story, if you will. Some five hundred years ago, Prince Artos Stark sailed to Valyria with a band of six heirs to his vassal houses, hoping to woo a woman of Valyrian coloring, for he found them beautiful. He was rebuffed by every household, as should be expected, for the Valyrian's found his lack of their features unworthy. Yet, in this time, he saved the life of the youngest son of the Monterys family, a middling assembly of dragonlords. The boy's elder brother had run afoul the Longaem family, a newer household of Valyrian nobility that had just one tame dragon, and they meant to kill the child in retaliation. For saving his son, Vaenar Monterys allowed Artos and his band to watch as he led his army against the Longaem's, killing them to the last and slaying their dragon. From this dragon were the seven Valyrian steel arms of the North made. Artos passed the weapons down to his friends, leaving the greatest of them as his own, and he named it Ice."

Jon hummed, kicking at a bone. This was a story he could appreciate, a tale that told of Ice's truth. He'd also not known that the North held seven Valyrian steel blades. Only Ice and Longclaw were made to Jon's knowledge.

His good humor turned foul soon, though. The making of Valyrian steel was truly lost. More than that, Valyrian steel was not even truly Valyrian steel. It was Daedric weaponry, tinged towards Peryite.

…But just because Valyrian steel was lost to Jon did not mean Daedric arms were so. Nocturnal herself said that the Others were originally denizens of Cold Harbor, daedra in their own right. Perhaps, when armed properly and prepped accordingly, he'd make way to the Lands of Always Winter and test his theory.

"What of the reforging process? I know the smiths of Qohor claim to know the spells involved-"

"Hogwash," spat the greenseer. "Lies to the same. To reforge Valyrian steel is the same as reforging anything else. All that matters is that the forge flame holds ground dragonbone, and that the steel is quenched once more in greyscale water. Valyrian steel cannot melt unless dragons are involved, and it cannot be cooled without greyscale."

"Huh." Useful to know. "I know the forge well. Perhaps I might make a blade my own from trinkets and such."

"You intend to take Dark Sister for your own, yes?"

"I do." There was no point in lying about such a thing. To wield Valyrian steel was a status of strength and nobility, and while Jon couldn't give a rats ass about being noble, he did want his strength known.

"And you wish the rest of my steel as well, I would assume."

"You've more?" If there was enough, Jon could forge a second blade from Daedrend and whatever else was left.

Brynden nodded. "If Aemon gave you my knife, he made tell of where I took it. There were other Valyrian pieces in the vaults of Dragonstone that I claimed for mine own. An amulet, a brooch, three rings, two maester's chain-links, and a comb once presented to Shiera by an Essosi suitor. My youthful obsession was… unbidden, as it were."

As he said this, a Child came into view. It was the same Child that held Dark Sister last night, the female that had proven stubborn. Dark Sister was in her hand once more. Almost as long as a longsword and half as wide, long and slender and black, its edge glimmered even in the faint tunnel light. Rubies were embedded into its pommel, white swirls lapping against its sharp edge. It was small enough to be held in one hand, but large enough to hack off a head.

"I cannot use my sword, and the Children like fighting little. She shall be your test," said Brynden. "Acorn she is called. Acorn will run, and you will seek. Catch her, and the blade is yours. Chase for as long as you are able, and continue again and again until you've gained your keep."

Acorn looked sad. All of the Children looked sad, but she was more than that. Sad and smug, somehow. "No man can keep me, nor hold or catch me. The earth is my keep, and my shield. Say what words you wish and let us begin this song."

Jon finished his bowl, slurping the last of his broth, and stood. Acorn was certainly small, small and quick and likely hard to catch. Within these tunnels, hidden and numerous as they are, it would be hard indeed to find her.

"I've three words."

Three words. Words that would allow him to rip Dark Sister from her grasp in that moment, words that would have him champion before the challenge began.

Words of power.

" _Zun… Haal Viik!"_

A misty blob encompassed the room, all within its path being hit. From her hands, Dark Sister was ripped, a field of energy keeping her from her prize. _All_ of the Children lost their arms. Acorn's green-gold eyes went wide, as did all in the clearing, and Jon moved quick. He dove for the sword, his haste bringing him to pain as he held it not by the grip but by the edge, a small stream of blood flowing from his left hand. That would scar more than like.

"Wh- What was that?!" Acorn asked, shaken.

Jon flipped Dark Sister into his palm, laughing brightly. Garamun cheered from the side. "The True Tongue is not the only language of change, Child."

Weapon. Hand. Defeat. The Thu'um of _Disarm_ was just as its name state, a shout that allowed its user to rip weapons from an opponent's grasp.

Brynden laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed, a cackle like that of a hyena, wheezing and hoarse though his age and position showed. He struggled to laugh and struggled to cry, and yet laugh and cry he did.

"I wished it so, that the Mistress of Mystery gave you power beyond ken." He wheezed. "That she'd trust you well. That Westeros would survive the Long Night once more. It seem my wish were made true."

His laugh ceased, his visage serious. "Take Dark Sister and mete out a legacy with her. Yet if you wish my other trinkets, with to create a new blade of Valyrian make using their steel, I have a task."

"Name it and it will be done," Jon announced, sheathing Dark Sister in that which once held Woe. Jon would happily do whatever it was that Brynden Rivers asked for the chance at another blade of Dark Sister's caliber.

"The Army of the Dead is soon to march, intent to fill their ranks with Free Folk," proclaimed the greenseer. "The ripples you bring to the future shall not change this fact. Take the Free Folk, the Giants, the Children. Take them from the True North, away from where they be thralls, and my wares are yours."

"That's impossible," proclaimed the Snow. "Wildlings listen to nobody. Giants are long lost. And the Children, they've to take care of you."

"The Children are barely three score, they've more important things to do than care for me," said Brynden. "I do not expect you to do this within a fortnight, time it will take and time it will need. When that time comes, all but a few Children will join you."

"And the Wildlings? They listen to no man. And the Giants are no more."

"The Giants are more numerous than the Children," said the greenseer. "They are strong and soft the same. Be clear and kind and they will take to you."

"And the Free Folk... You speak another falsehood." He grinned devilishly, a disturbing sight. Blackened teeth rot with mushrooms. "They do listen to man, one in particular. One man above all others."

Jon snorted. "And who'd that be?"

"A King."

* * *

 **Normally, it'd take a while before this got out. But then the S8 trailer dropped and most of my day was spent on the phone waiting for operators to pick up the line, so…**

 **Inspiration and boredom hit all at once. It's a smaller chapter.**

 **Not a ton happened in this chapter. Jon got a fancy new sword, regained a bit of power, and learned how to make Valyrian steel. I know some people are going to be disappointed that he's not gonna pop out works of Valyrian steel like clockwork, but ah well. I like the mystery behind the stuff, the idea that its creation is well and truly behind us. But he can reforge the stuff. That'll make him a well wanted man all on its own.**

 **And now, we've got Brynden trying to egg him on to be king. King-Beyond-the-Wall that is. Mance Raydar isn't there** _ **yet**_ **, but he's almost at that point. How things'll go down- I dunno. Kinda just spat this chapter out and decided to roll with it.**

 **I've got a quasi-understanding of how this story is gonna go.**


	7. Freedom

Istind Hearthome had been asked to become king thrice in his eight and twenty years of life.

The first was asked of him by the Jarls of Skyrim, during a great council held atop High Hrothgar. There, they were meant to discuss the issue of dragons, and make to halt the hostilities between Stormcloak and Imperial until Alduin was defeated. Ulfric Stormcloak himself asked Istind to wear the Jagged Crown. But Istind was not even twenty at this time, and little learned besides. He'd more interest in his adventures than he was a court, and so Ulfric was rejected.

The second was after Istind journeyed to Solitude and halted Potema's resurrection. General Tulius was hoping Jarl Elisef would become High Queen, but felt her claim needed a stronger backing than the Empire – he was well aware that the Stormcloaks rebelled for a reason. All that was required of Istind was to take her to bride and he'd rule Skyrim as High King. He was Archmage at this time, learned and all, and would be a greater match than any other man could claim. Alas, he'd married Camilla Valerius by now, and she was great with Astrid, their first child. He'd no intention to put her aside, for he loved her truly, and so Istind too rejected Tulius.

Perhaps the most surprising of request of kingship had been the last of them, from Titus Mede himself. Istind had been summoned to the elderly emperor's personal ship, where the man asked a match between Astrid and one of his sons. He'd further proclaimed that should Istind accept, he'd name the Dragonborn his heir and allow him the Ruby Throne, so long as Istind's own heir be born from Astrid's loins.

It was surely tempting, far more tempting than the previous two offers. But Istind rejected it all the same. He'd missed much of his family during his adventures, and the politics of being Thane were already taxing enough. An emperor was like to be worse. And then there was the matter of Titus Mede's sons.

That none were trueborn, that they were all bastards carrying the mark of Medeborn, mattered little to Istind. What mattered was that the youngest of them was two years Istind's elder, and Astrid was barely three. He would not have her suffer such a husband. Titus Mede would have no Hearthome blood in his line.

Nords cried out their despair, wanting nothing more than a Dragonborn to sit the Ruby Throne, just as Talos himself did. Istind's _Dovahsos_ too cried out, wanting nothing more than to rule. And yet, Istind tempered it. The nature of a dragon was domination, not allowance. If he'd the intent to become king, he'd become a king all his own. None could tell him to do so, and none that requested such were within his council. The more they asked this of him, the more he refused their advances.

This was not to say Istind hadn't thought about becoming king, becoming emperor. What Nord boy did not dream of sitting the throne of a warm keep or castle when the winter chill was harsh and biting? When brigands and bandits passed through town squares, pillaging and plundering and raping all the while? But later, as age and experience and family came into play, he thought better of such. Each man was their own, bound only to their kin. They'd only duties to others had they meant to do well, and Istind Hearthome had done that and more for Tamriel.

And now, Jon Snow was asked to be king.

And just as before, just as Istind Hearthome had thrice spoke, Jon's answer was a resounding: "No."

The smile of Brynden Rivers was quick to leave. His visage grew stern, weary to the same. "Then you'll not have my wares, Jon Snow."

"I will." Jon said, idly taking Daedrend from Twig's hand. The Child did not seem to care, quiet as he was.

"You would steal from us?" Acorn asked, her voice high and tone bracing. The sadness that filled her being was strong once more, defeat making up her person.

"No, I've no need to steal. I'll have your trinkets still."

"You shall not," Brynden denied, shaking his head. Wispy trails of white followed the movement, longer than some tree branches. "My terms have been stated, I will not barter them. The Others must not have further fodder for their ranks. Become king and lead those beyond the Wall to salvation."

"And why must I be king to do that?" Jon asked. "My father complained plenty during my last year in Winterfell about them. Raids south of the Wall have lessened in the past few years: they're gathering by the masses. He feared a King-Beyond-the-Wall has already been claimed. Jeor Mormont confirmed such, a former black brother to salt his crops. They've no need of me when they've a king of their own, one of their own choosing."

"You would treat with Mance Raydar?" Brynden asked, honestly confused. "You've power beyond him, beyond any of them. The Free Folk would rally to you, would leave him easily. _He_ would rally to you."

"Because they are his people," said Jon. "Not mine."

Jon knew little of the wildlings. Of that which was known to him, much and more was lost. They elected their own leaders, wished to go south of the Wall, and kept to their own. That was all he knew. No king could last if they knew not of the people they wished to rule. It took time to learn a culture, time Jon wished to spend elsewhere.

No. For Jon to become their king, he'd need to bend their wills. He held little issue in bending an enemy to his will, Garamun being a clear showing of such. But the wildlings were not his enemy, not truly. He had no desire to do such, and thus had no desire to keep with them.

"They could be your people," Brynden hedged. "Join with them and they will know your worth. They will flock to you."

"I've no interest," denied Jon, growing tired. "Instead, I've a question. You say the Others will march south. When? In a year? Two? Ten? If we've time before the danger is upon us, would it not be better spent preparing those south of the Wall?"

The greenseer was quiet, his single eye narrowed. He took on a ponderous slant. His eye went white, then red, the Orb beneath him glowing a similar color through its cage of roots.

"…They begin their march in full come six years." Brynden said, five minutes of silence passing. "In two, Wights will be sent south to scout for advantage. This will not change, no matter your actions."

"And if I were not involved at all, when would Rayder go against the Wall?"

"Five years," sighed the elder. "He will light the trees just outside the Wall aflame when his attack is at foot. You think to convince him a better solution within five years? It would be cleaner to be king."

"Cleaner? I'd need to challenge for that, and when I win then I'd need to hold my post by beating and killing all of mine own challengers. That is not clean, that is cruel. Cruelty they will not take to. Convincing Mance of a better solution is clean as they come."

"And what is this solution you've to your name?" Acorn asked scornfully, her tone biting.

Jon shrugged, facing her. "I haven't one, not yet. But I've five years to think on it, don't I? Should nothing come to mind within that time… I'll just open the door. Most of the castles along the Wall have been abandoned, they've tunnels through each side."

"Tunnels that were sealed with ice and stone, thicker than a mammoth."

"Simple enough," said Jon, rolling his shoulders. "I'll open a tunnel and have them through."

"And the North?" Brynden carried. "The Starks? Your family? How would they act to your bringing an army of over a hundred thousand on their door?"

Poorly, Jon knew. They'd chop off his head and feed it to the dogs, family or no. Which was why Jon was intent on looking for a different path before doing this. There were lands aplenty that the wildlings could claim, lands that were little populated. Sothoryos and Ibben and Ulthos and Mussovy came to mind. Even the Shadowlands and the Dothraki Sea would work. But the question remained on how to get them there.

The Thu'um was powerful, this was obvious. But the Thu'um could not do all. There were no Shouts that allowed Jon to create portals or move others, none that he knew of at least. He could not just bring the wildlings to these lands on a whim, he'd need strategy and stubborn wit. And ships.

"…You said that I was to be King in the North," said Jon, ignoring the question. "And yet I was also Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. How can I be a great man when I break my vows and usurp my family?"

" _And now my watch has ended._ You died, Jon Snow. Risen from the grave by the call of Red. And of your family… there was little family left to usurp." Brynden said, grimly. "Eddard and Robb and Rickon lay dead, Bran a cripple, Arya an assassin and Sansa traumatized. You did not take the crown, you were given it by the peoples of the North."

Jon grimaced, the threat of the Army of the Dead truer and nearer to him than ever before. The Starks were his family, and he'd see them live past what is to occur.

"Teach me," Jon demanded, standing. He marched towards Brynden and stood not even a foot from his face. The Children reacted to his movements accordingly, weapons at the ready. "Teach me all that I need know. All that I asked of. Show me what I must do, so that I may aid my ken."

The roots 'neath Brynden opened once more, the Orb of Vaermina open to view, its pulsing red glow distorting Jon's vision from so close.

"Touch the Orb," said the greenseer. "Touch it and _learn_."

Jon did, and the world went red, then white, then black, and then the colors of all things became his to see, the world his window.

* * *

Brynden being Champion to a Daedric Prince brought about many memories for Jon. Memories he'd thought buried, only to be resurrected by a scant few words.

Three months he'd spent with the greenseer. Three months spent using the Orb of Vaermina to scry his pleasure.

Jon was no greenseer. He'd not the gift nor the desire to bring it about. Such a thing would mean he'd not be able to glean of the world, but the Orb allowed much. With it, Brynden could see farther than any greenseer before him could, and with it Jon could glimpse Brynden's experience.

He learned of the Valyrians, how they gained dragons and forged their empire and fell to the Doom. He learned of the Others, how Azor Ahai bested them thousands of years ago and how dragonglass and fire were their downfall. He learned of Westeros, its inception and its many many wars and its conquering by Aegon I. He learned of how the Targaryens rose and fell, the Blackfyres and their hopes for the throne, of Rhaegar and his elopement with Lyanna Stark. Jon had honestly thought himself a bastard, and so the realization that he was a true Targaryen stunned him. Aemon hadn't told him such. He'd still no desire for the throne or to change his name, however.

He learned all he wished and more, and yet there was something missing. Jon yearned for it, wished it dearly. Brynden's being Champion to the Dream sparked this desire, and now it was like a burning flame that had no pyre to rest.

Jon wished to talk to somebody.

It was a simple want, childish even. But he wished for it on a scale that was deeper than the tunnels the Children of old sung into the earth.

He wished to speak to somebody that knew of Tamriel. Somebody that he could share his past with, somebody whose experiences he could understand. Whether they were man or mer or beast, Jon hadn't a care. He wanted this _badly._

But the oldest of the Children did not know what the words Dwemer and Nirn and Tamriel meant. The elves that the Daedric Princes brought to this world interbred with humans and died off. The beastkin were hunted to the last by the dregs of this world. None knew of Tamriel, none knew of Nirn.

Jon was alone.

His _Dovahsos_ craved debate. Needed it. A dragon went mad when left without for too long. Jon would never have this issue, for this was a task that occurred over hundreds of years, but it still unsettled his soul.

And then, he remembered something else. Something that changed things. Nocturnal came to him in a dream those three months ago, stating that she hid him and his actions from the gaze of the Princes.

Which meant there was no consequence to his action. That he could truly do as he pleased and hold nothing back. It was not even a year ago that he could use a full Thu'um, and he'd held off since. But now…

Now, Jon was trembling with hope.

Garamun and he were two miles from the Children's hovel, west towards the Fist of the First Men. Acorn had come along with them, intent on keeping him in sight. They'd grown close over these past months, close enough that she was willing to trek with him. Brynden had told him how unusual this was, for the Child that once held Dark Sister was closed off even to her race.

"Why bring us here?" asked Acorn. She'd climbed a tree when they settled and made chair from a thick branch.

"I know not if this will work," Jon admitted. "I wish it dearly, but I know not. I thought it wiser to attempt away from your home."

"Is it your magic?" Acorn had been interested in the Thu'um since he'd used it to disarm her. Sky shouting, she called it, the partner to earth singing.

"It is."

"Then you were wise indeed."

Little else need be stated. Garamun backed away and Acorn climbed higher atop her tree. Jon was alone, breathing deeply. He meditated on his words and knew what he wished.

" _Od… Ah VIING!"_

His voice was the crack of lightning, the roll of thunder.

And yet, there was no dovah to answer his cry. Odahviing did not appear as he wished, nothing actually happened save for birds and squirrels making away from him for his loud noise.

Jon had hoped for his old friend to heed summon, but he understood. A dragon answered a summon from the sky, not from another plane. He could not summon Odahviing from Sovngarde, and so too could he not summon him here. It stung fiercely all the same.

They left the clearing then and returned to the heart tree home.

.

The next day, in the same clearing, Jon began again.

" _Hun… Kaal ZOOR!"_

Hero. Champion. Legend.

The Thu'um he'd gained from Tsun, the ancient god of trials, shield-thane to Shor, keeper of the whalebone bridge after defeating Alduin. With it, Jon was able to call champions who feasted in the Hall of Valor for a time, to do battle with. Rare was it that this Thu'um was used, for Jon little liked messing with the dead, but he felt his need strongly in this instance.

Unlike his attempt to summon Odahviing, something _did_ happen. A figure of fog appeared, ghostly in truth. It was a man of fair stature, wearing a translucent gear of silver armor held with a white cape. The symbol of a three-headed dragon was emblazoned on his chest, and Jon knew he'd failed then.

"Wha-" the man began in disorientation. "Where am I? I should be dead. I _am_ dead. How has this come to be?"

"An experiment," Jon said, saddened. "I wished to summon somebody else and got you."

He'd hoped to call one of the heroes of Skyrim, Hakon One-Eye or Gormlaith Golden-Hilt or even Felldir the Old. This was not to be. _Mores the shame,_ thought Jon.

"I've been called from my earned rest for an _experiment?!"_ Bellowed the man, a pair of swords suddenly in hand. One of these blades was of standard make, the other milky-white, like a pearl. Jon knew the sword if nothing else, and so he knew who the man was as well.

"It shall pass, Ser Arthur Dayne." Jon placated, his arms raised. "The spell that holds you lasts for only a few minutes. It is meant to summon an aid for combat, but I wished for wisdom. I made a misstep."

"I'll only need a few minutes to carve you to pieces," said the Sword of the Morning, twirling his own swords. "Name yourself, defiler. Name yourself and die."

Were it not for the fact that Jon had tuckered himself with the Thu'um, he would have readily met the challenge. To fight the man revered as the greatest knight in recent memory would be well worth the struggle. Alas, he was indeed tuckered, and need meet this man with word instead of blade.

"Jon," he said. "Son of Lyanna and Rhaegar."

Arthur looked as if he'd been slapped by a fish, his jaw hanging. Then he sheathed his swords and fell to his knees.

"My king…" he murmured. "I am gladdened to hear you live. I serve still, even in death. How may I aid you?"

"Serve by doing nothing. I did not mean to call you from your earned rest, and I make not to keep you from it further."

"Then might you free my doubt? Tell me of your childhood. We are in a land of vast snow and tall trees, I see. The North, I presume? Lord Stark raised you then?"

"He did," Jon allowed. "Robert Baratheon won the Iron Throne, and Lord Eddard would not see me dead. I was not raised as Jon Targaryen, but as Jon Snow, his bastard son."

"He dares sully Rhaegar's son with bastardry?" hissed Arthur.

"He dares me living. Prefers it, even. Were my name known, I would have been butchered just as Rhaenys and Aegon were. I was given all I needed to thrive, and thrive I did."

Arthur anger turned to a solemn nod. He smiled a small thing and then disappeared in a wisp of fog, the spell that held his spirit.

"That should not be possible, sky shouter." Acorn stated, her green-yellow eyes wide. "None can call upon the dead in this manner."

"And none further shall." Who he wished to summon did not come, and so Jon felt no reason to do this again. The dead shall remain such.

.

This was to be their last day at work. Jon had only one other option that he knew of, the one he'd least liked. It was not that he did not care for this creature. It was simply that he carried a sour taint.

" _Dur… Neh VIIR!"_

Jon honestly thought nothing would happen, just as nothing did for Odahviing. And he was right in his expectation. No matter how loud his Shout, nor the echo it held, silence was his answer.

He slumped, his hopes passing a quick death. Garamun caught his mood and nuzzled to his shoulder in an attempt at comfort. Jon shoved the beast away, unwanting of such a thing. Not of his servant, at least.

"What is it you wished?" Acorn asked, dropping from her perch. She was not near enough to touch him, but close enough to be kind.

"I wished a friend," Jon said. "One I know, or one that knows of me. I made to call on others who can Shout. They did not answer. I am alone."

"We know this loneliness well, Jon Snow." Acorn sighed, walking towards him. He'd taken to the snow, knees buried in its confine, and so she was level to his face. "We are not alone. You are not alone."

"You've still the other Children." Jon bit.

"I am the last born of my clan. The last whose womb has not gone barren. I am alone, sky shouter."

She'd reached his kneeling form and held his face in her hands. "But just because we are alone, does not mean it need stay that way. You wished a friend. Am I not a friend?"

They stared at one another, for a long while. Then, an instinct overtook Jon. He shakily took hold of her hands gentle as could be, and leaned forwards, pressing his lips to hers.

Acorn did not respond at first. She stood still, her eyes locked with Jon's own. Then her eyelids closed, and she pushed back, opening her lips against his, rubbing her tongue over his own. Her tongue was rough, almost like what one would expect from a cat, and it was long. Long enough to almost gag him. Further proof that while humanoid, this was no human.

Their kiss was sloppy and uncoordinated. Acorn had never done this before, and it showed. Jon was patient, showing her what he liked and did not, mind afar. He did not wish to take advantage of her, did not make to confuse her. He'd need know if this was her intent, if they-

Jon jumped away from Acorn when an echoing roar sounded from above, a loud and terrible and _familiar_ sound. Acorn did more than jump away, she wholly fled, moving faster than he'd seen any of the Children move yet.

The shape did not descend from the air, but rather materialized. Bones appeared first, wings and joints and a skull with four horns. Then muscles and sinews wrapped around the spectral dragon's body from head to tail. Thick grey scales, half rotted and decayed though they were, soon followed. From the sky it fell, slamming into the snow with a great force, knocking the tree Acorn had perched previously over with an ease few creatures could possess.

The undead dragon gave a roar that sent chills down the spines of those that had not heard his voice, but Jon stood strong and even smiled.

" _Qahnaarin…"_ Durnehviir rumbled, his voice shaking the ground beneath. "Your _Sos,_ soul,was hard to comprehend from my _Pindaar_ , my prison. You look different. _Mal_. Smaller."

Jon laughed. Laughed harder than ever before in this life, hard enough to bring tears to his eye. He did not wipe them away, allowing them to stain his reddened cheeks. To Durnehviir, everybody looked small. He was the largest dragon of Tamriel save for Alduin, his body over eighty meters in length. "I am different, old friend."

" _Geh,_ you are. _Ol Los Daar Golt._ " Durnehviir looked around the clearing with hazed eyes, sniffing the air deeply. He then recoiled, shaking his long neck like a shivered dog. "This land… _Folaas,_ it is wrong. _Kolos Los Zu'u._ Where am I?"

"A realm of Oblivion. I died, old friend, my soul taken as plaything by the Princes due to a bargain I did not fully understand." If anybody could comprehend his sadness in this, it would be Durnehviir.

" _Dovah Lost Ni Fah Oblivion._ Dragons were never meant for Oblivion. _Mu Los Kiir Do Bormah._ We are children of Akatosh. Of the _Eyra,_ the Aedra. Not the _Deyra,_ the Daedra. I do not belong here, _Qahnaarin."_

He should have expected such. Truly, he should have. Overarching desire warred sense, however. "May I call upon you still, old friend?"

" _Geh, Qahnaarin._ Speak my name and I shall come." Durnehviir closed his eyes and smoke fizzled from his body.

Then he opened his eyes further and looked down at Jon in shock. " _Zu'u Dreh Ni Haalvut Niin._ The Ideal Masters… Their hold on me. I do not feel it. _Daar Kos._ How can this be?"

"This is a realm the Princes formed eons ago, in an attempt to create something as grand as Nirn." Jon said, thinking as well. "…It is not connected to the Aetherius. So…"

"They cannot reach me," Durnehviir proclaimed, tears of ash flowing from his sunken eyes. " _Stin, Dovahkiin._ I am free, my friend."

"But how was I able to call on you then?"

"The Soul Cairn lies in between _Laas_ and _Dinok._ Between life and death. You died, _Qahnaarin._ Only there could your _Thu'um_ be heard, and only by me. _Bolog_ , I beg you. End my half-life, _Qahnaarin._ Let this never-ending curse finally die."

Jon shook his head. His whole body shook, really. "I- I _can't_. I called you here so I might-"

" _Mindok._ I know," Durnehviir purred, pressing his snout against Jon's tunic. Rotted scales remained on Jon's chest when the dovah pulled back. "But… _Saraan._ I have waited for this. Please, friend. Do this."

Shuddering, Jon took a step forward, his grip on Dark Sister's pommel. "If- Allow me to try something else, before I kill you. Just to _try_."

" _Dreh Ol Hi Fen._ Do as you must. I have waited ages for this _Tiid_ , this moment. I have patience to spare."

Durnehviir nodded and settled himself, and Jon thought. He thought on what he could do, on what this chance would mean. He would rather aid his friend who'd suffer for longer than almost all creatures of Nirn existed.

But this did not mean Jon had to kill him.

He sucked in his breath and fully faced Durnehviir, the dragon cocking a sinewy head in curiosity. Louder than any Shout he'd used since his life on Westeros began, Jon bellowed his make. This was not a plea, this was a demand.

" _SLEN… TIID VO!"_

Flesh. Time. Undo.

Jon had never used this Shout. Nor had Istind. Nor had Miraak. But they all knew of it, seen it used by the World Eater himself. The power to restore the grace of a Dovah, even from beyond the grave.

Durnehviir recognized the Shout as well, for he reared his head back as life encompassed his undead form. His rotted scales turned healthy, the yellow pus forms grown along the ridges of his bones disappeared as cartilage thickened. Grey scales turned a silvery metallic color, under belly green like tree tops. The membranes of his wings turned whole once more, a lined pattern of yellow webbing taking root.

What once was became shown again.

"… _Zu'u… Zu'u Lost Nid Rot._ I have no words. You… _Qahnaarin._ You have gifted my _Laas_ , life anew. I… I-"

A quick movement, though not subtle by any means. Durnehviir's head lowered, his neck exposed to Jon. His wings dipped with this movement. It was a bow of sorts, one Jon had not seen before from any of the Dovah.

" _Vaat Wah Hi._ I swear to you. Upon my _Sil,_ my soul. Upon my _Bormah,_ my father. I renounce you as _Qahnaarin,_ and instead call you _Thuri."_

Jon's eyes widened and he rushed to Durnehviir, holding the Dov up by the horns. Subserviently, the dragon rose his head with Jon's movement, though did nothing else.

"You don't need to do this, Durnehviir." To be _Thuri_ was to be master. An overlord, a king, a tyrant. Somebody that ruled over another in totality. Under Alduin, the Dov were expected to proclaim him such as the firstborn of Akatosh. But for one to call another _Thuri_ was to proclaim a service lasting a lifetime.

"Durnehviir need not. _Vahzah,_ this is true." The Dov nodded. "And yet, Durnehviir no longer exists. The never-ending curse is lifted. A newfound name, for a newfound life. _Thuri_ , I ask of you, hear me. I am _Stinmirnahl!_ "

Stin. Mir. Nahl.

Free. Allegiance. Living.

A name that showed proof of his life. No longer bound, truly alive, and only because he'd chosen to follow the one who'd vanquished him previously.

A strange growl echoed from Stinmirnahl, a growl that originated from his core. He looked perplexed for a moment, and then laughed brightly. " _Bahlok!_ Hunger! I have not craved _Kip_ in ages!"

He then lunged for Garamun, giving the bear no time to run. A great big bite tore Jon's mount in half, Stinmirnahl eating in bliss. Soon, he finished his meal, a bloody mess on his muzzle that he busily licked up. A heavy belch echoed from his mouth, bringing more laughter from the previously fatalistic dragon.

" _Kreh zini!_ After a meal so grand, I wish the wind on my _Viings_ , my wings. The freedom of the sky beckons! _Thuri!_ Take your place upon my back. See the land as I do!"

Bracingly, Jon did so. Stinmirnahl's neck was further lowered, his wings settled nearby to be used as a step. He situated himself near the skull of the dragon, holding curved horns dearly.

Stinmirnahl took a running start, roaring as he made air. Higher and higher did they go, over the Children's home where Jon was barely able to see a handful of them. Further past, Stinmirnahl flew south, making canter against the sides of the Wall.

Stinmirnahl was free.

 _Jon_ was free.

* * *

 **Hooooo boy. Last chapter had some development in technicalities. This one just shunted the world open. So, I'm gonna go over some things. I don't feel like getting flamed or whatever, and thus feel it needed.**

 **Firstly, Durnehviir. Stirminnahl.** _ **Whatever he is**_ **. This is Jon's companion for this story. His Ghost. Does this mean that Ghost won't exist? Probably not, I like the albino pupper.** _ **But he will not be Jon's**_ **. A dragon of Tamriel is infinitely better, nothing anybody says or does and convince me otherwise.**

 **Acorn and Jon are not a couple. Dude was just really stressed and accidentally took advantage of her being nice. I've done it before to a female friend and it's a shitty feeling. How things go between them is still up in the air. I've got a general idea, and while there might be some messing around, they aren't going to be a pairing. She's an OC, and I don't want Jon's finality with that.**

 **Lastly, the king thing. I'll be honest, Jon could easily become King-Beyond-the-Wall. But I wouldn't want that type of responsibility, and neither would Jon. He's already declared that he's gonna be a goober and help the Free Folk. He doesn't need to be their cultural leader to do that.**

 **If you liked this chapter, please Favorite/Follow and don't forget to Review!**


	8. Touched

_Supper is a rare affair tonight_ , Acorn thought, staring at the dancing Children that surrounded a pit of fire. Stinmirnahl craned his neck to and fro in an attempt to copy them, and Jon Snow and Brynden Rivers laughed heartily at the beast. _But not bad._

The Children of the Forest were an often-sad people, their tones sullen and demeanors downtrodden. Years of heartbreak and decline were the cause of this. Their songs were solemn things, sad and mourning. They sung for their ancestors gone, for their young that would not be, for their brothers and sisters dead too soon.

However, for the first time in Acorn's forty years, her people were not singing a song of sorrow. Her kin hummed hymns of hope, a concert of content, a symphony of salvation. There was merriment that echoed the bowels of their home. They danced their joy, laughing and crying and _happy_.

Jon Snow was leaving.

This was not the true reason that her family celebrated. They would never celebrate such a thing; the loss of Jon Snow was felt deeply, in truth. No, what was cause for celebration was the fact that Lief had somehow fallen with child.

It should have been impossible. Lief was of nearly two hundred years, her fertility thought gone ages ago, and yet her stomach held new life still. This miracle, this babe… Acorn knew whence it came. All knew whence it came. It was brought about by Stinmirnahl, the beast that called Jon Snow _Thuri._

The Children had been awed by his arrival, and Brynden Rivers had been beyond giddy. Though he could see dragons whenever he wished within his dreams, to see one when awake was an experience he'd wished since birth. To greensee was not to experience. He could not feel their flames, nor touch their scales, nor fathom their presence when dreaming. Here, he could.

But Stinmirnahl was not a dragon. Dragons could not talk, held no true intelligence. Stinmirnahl certainly could talk and he was assuredly smarter than any man, and clever besides.

According to Jon Snow, Stinmirnahl was one of the dovah; the last of his species in fact. How such creatures died off, Acorn couldn't fathom. His size and strength alone were awe inspiring, and his magic was beyond anything she'd experienced. Neither Stinmirnahl nor Jon Snow would say, and so she'd been left to her imagination. Perhaps a war killed them off, or a plague. Regardless, she was in the presence of a dov, and Acorn felt humbled by it.

Stinmirnahl had been openly interested in the Children, calling them Dwemer. He believed them dead to the last. Just as well, the Children believed Stinmirnahl never existed. Mutual curiosity brought Lief into his confidant, keeping the dov company and trading tale with the beast. She was a scholar if ever there was one, a curious creature that questioned everything. And now, weeks later, she was pregnant.

The Children of the Forest were not bound in fertility like men were. True, the older a Child was, the harder it was to get with child, same as any other species. But the Children lived for many centuries, longer even than the dragons that once ruled the skies. The Children of the Forest could never go barren, not truly. Their wombs and seed were strengthened by magic. The more magic, the more Children. As it had always been. Acorn herself had only been born due to the arrival of Brynden Rivers, and it was he that named her.

But the downfall of the Children was the downfall of the dragonlords. The Doom of Valyria did not just scar a civilization, it felled the magic of the world. When the Valyrians reigned, the Children were plentiful. And when they fell, the Children lost much of their ability to _be_ plentiful.

Acorn surmised she had another twenty years before her womb would run dry. She'd felt a heavy burden on her shoulders for many years, and no matter how often she tried, no seed would quicken. Her cunt ran red with each new moon still, so she knew she was able. It was the males whose seed could not work.

Stinmirnahl was a creature of magic. Magic beyond anything the Children had ever known, certainly greater than the three-eyed ravens. His very presence saturated their home with the stuff. Lief had been of the belief that she might quicken due to this and took Twig to bed. Her faith became fact, and Acorn knew tonight would be a breeding frenzy. Jon Snow was leaving, and Stinmirnahl would leave with him. Without them, the Children would have no young. And so, there would be much in the way of trying till they'd gone.

Jon Snow stood, downing a horn of fermented goats' milk as he bid back into his hovel. Brynden and Stinmirmnahl and the rest of the Children offered him fair dreams. Acorn did not. She followed along.

She knew well that Jon Snow was going to leave at some point. He'd spent over four months within their halls, and he felt it time to be on his way. This suited Acorn poorly, for she'd had mixed feelings regarding the man.

Since the day he summoned Stinmirnahl, Acorn had been unable to take Jon Snow's presence. She'd been too embarrassed, being frank. The Children did not kiss, and yet they knew what it was. A show of affection made from the children man. Jon Snow kissed her. Whether it had been brought about by grief or lust, Acorn knew not. But he still did it, and she'd been unable to rip the memory from her mind. Even now, Acorn found herself touching her lips. She couldn't help by wonder what might have happened had she not been startled away by Stinmirnahl's appearance.

 _No more,_ vowed Acorn as she hummed a low tune, weirwood roots dancing a barrier from behind. _I will not wonder any longer._

Breathing lowly, Acorn entered the hovel of Jon Snow. He decorated it minorly, keeping only the Valyrian steel trinkets that Brynden Rivers had gifted along a flattened boulder adjacent to his fur cot.

Jon Snow turned to her, grey eyes questioning. "Acorn? You need something?"

Acorn did not answer. Instead, she showed. She walked up to him and shoved him into his cot. Jon Snow fumbled as he fell, looking confused all the while. He turned even more confused when Acorn straddled his lap and pressed her lips to his own.

He shoved her back, mouth agape. "Wha- What are you doing?"

"Kissing," said Acorn. She made to do it again, but he held her strong.

"I figured that," groused the man. " _Why_ , is what I mean."

"Then you should have asked such."

He sighed. "Fine. Why did you kiss me?"

"To know."

"Know what?"

"If you will let me continue, I hope to find out."

He stared at her searchingly, and then slowly released his hold on her shoulders. Acorn took his advantage and resumed her attack. His lips were soft, too soft, and his tongue too short. Men were lacking in the mouth. And yet she enjoyed this still. Enjoyed it enough to wish to go further.

Her hands fumbled around his clothes with clear intention while his skillfully divested her of her leaf-woven jerkin. Heat pooled from her core as he felt her breasts, brushed his thumbs over her dark nipples.

She broke the kiss with a gasp when he twisted his body and fell atop her, stripping all the while. Then he lowered his head between her legs, his tongue dancing over her folds, and Acorn found another activity that the Children did not partake in.

She found herself wishing they did.

* * *

"Do you have all you need, _Thuri?_ " Stinmirnahl asked, his head low to the ground. Snow shifted with his every breath.

"Aye, I've enough." Dark Sister and Daedrend were strapped to his sides, Woe secure on his back. His satchel was filled mainly with dried meats and long-lasting berries, wrapped in a spare set of furs. Jon hoped they'd last a week.

Jon chose to leave the Valyrian steel trinkets here. He knew where they were, and further he was a man of his word. Brynden might have already allowed Jon them due to Stinmirnahl's presence, but Jon had made a deal. Till he'd a way to help the Free Folk, he would not claim them.

"And the Dwemer? _Dreh Hi Ni Hind Wah,_ do you not wish to say goodbye?"

"No, last night was enough." In more ways than one. He'd gotten to give the Children his farewells, and while they were saddened by his choice, their exuberance regarding Lief's pregnancy overshadowed this. In truth, the only Child Jon had any mixed feelings about leaving was Acorn, and that was purely due to their activities from the night prior.

 _Damn you Sanguine,_ thought Jon. It was the Daedric Prince of Debauchery that lowered the inhibitions of the inhabitants of Westeros. Small sparks of lust turned to roaring tides in the span of a few seconds, and little was controlled. The Children of the Forest were a meek, quiet people, and yet last night had been a veritable orgy and Acorn had lain with him in a fit of idle curiosity.

Acorn was at least clear in her words after they'd lain together. She had only wished to know what her feelings regarding him were, and she'd made her peace. She considered Jon Snow a friend, nothing more, nothing less. All the better. Pretty in her own right though she was, a woman did more for him than a Child. They had their fun and that was it.

"Then climb my _Viings_ and _Vod,_ let us be off. _Mu Lost Aan Golt Wah Koraav._ You've a world to see."

Jon did so, casting one last look towards the Children's nameless home. The morning hadn't yet come, the stars still numerous and open to see. Summer chills were strong in the now, a creeping wind that hummed Jon's hair hovering. Stinmirnahl now had a makeshift saddle outfitted atop his back, threaded from animal pelts woven by the Children. Attached to his back was a thick sling of preserved foods, meant to last him a month outside of what was held in his satchel.

Once secure, he slapped at Stinmirnahl's side, and the dov made move. He took off in a trot and his wings opened, gusting great bursts of snow and sleet all throughout. Once in the air, Stinmirnahl went right for the Wall, subtlety not in his mind as he flew directly above Castle Black.

They flew fast and they flew hard, and at some point, Jon felt warmth for the first time in his second life.

Beyond the Wall they flew, over Winterfell and White Harbor and the Bite, till they left the North. They soared through the Vale of Arryn, racing past mountainous trenches that fondled the clouds. They'd no true goal, no true destination. The time it took to fly mattered little. South was all Jon cared for while Stinmirnahl wished only to taste the open air.

It was when they entered the Crownlands, high above Duskendale, that Stinmirnahl chose to fly in a direction that was not South.

"Where're you going?" asked Jon, rubbing along the spinal joints of his friend. He'd made turn. Where once they were on path to soar high over King's Landing, now they were trailing over the Narrow Sea.

" _Zu'u Hind Wah Korrav Fin Hofkiin Do Daar Deyra._ I wish to see the home of those that rode the daedra born to spite our _Bormah._ "

Jon and Brynden had been going over the basics of the known world with Stinmirnahl over the course of these past few weeks. Jon had much to learn, but he'd at least fifteen years to acclimate. Stinmirnahl had none of this.

He'd been quite annoyed to learn of Peryite's spawn. He refused to allow himself to be titled anything but a dovah, for to be called after the daedra was insulting.

Still, even in his annoyance, he was interested. The dragons of Westeros were weaker than those of Skyrim, and yet they were dragons still. Stinmirnahl had desired to know more about them, and Brynden had been happy to offer tale.

It seemed as if stories were not enough.

 _Well,_ Jon mused, leaning back against one of his great spikes. _I've always wanted to go to Valyria._

* * *

Whilst Jon hadn't a care for anything, the same could not be true for the rest of Westeros. The sight of a dragon in the sky by both the North and the Vale was clearly noted, as was the direction it was flying.

Maester Aemon had been delighted. Brynden had visited his dreams months ago and informed him of Jon's arrival and safety, which put the elderly man at ease. That a dragon had returned to the world was spectacular to the chain-bearing man, and he was gladdened for the survival of his House. The only thing that saddened him was that he was not able to see the living wonder.

Lord Commander Jeor Mormont was not of the same thought. He'd been scared enough to shit his trousers at the sight of the dragon, him and half of Castle Black, and he'd not liked it at all. A dragon coming from beyond the Wall spoke of dark things, and he had his steward send ravens to all the major Houses and cities and thoroughfares of the Seven Kingdoms of what had occurred. A warning of dire times.

In truth, all the peoples of Westeros that saw the dragon were of the same mind as the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. They'd panicked and cried and pissed themselves, and those that could read and raven sent word through Westeros. By the months end, talk of the last living dragon was loose on the tongues of lord and commonfolk alike. Rumor had it that Robert Baratheon went into a rage at the news of a dragon, though nothing came of it.

Perhaps the only man aside from Maester Aemon that had a thought on how this might have happened was Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Sat in his solar, looking over Jeor Mormont's words, he grimaced and grinned alike. Whether it was a dragon of fire or a dragon of ice, Jon had dragons blood running through his veins, and he might have awoken the creature. In truth, Ned hoped this was the case. That would mean that Jon still lived, and he'd less reason to mourn.

His grief had a habit of being a physical thing, needing distraction to be held bay. The first time he'd grieved properly for his father and brother had been on his wedding night, and Robb was conceived of it. The second had been his return to Winterfell, where he grieved for his sister. Sansa was born from that. The third had been from the death of many close friends during the Greyjoy rebellion, and Bran was given life through this.

Ned had thought Jon dead when he'd gallivanted past the Wall, the boy he'd thought a son and the only remaining piece of Lyanna that there was. He'd fallen into grief, just as he'd done thrice before, and his lady wife was once again with child as a result. Her stomach was already starting to swell with his sixth child. That child was perhaps the only thing that brought his family out of their listlessness.

But… He could not share his theory with his family. Ned was loyal to Robert, as were many of his guards. Some more loyal to the king than they were their lord. Should word of Jon's lineage get out, it was likely that Robert would storm the North in a rage. That could not be allowed.

The Lord of Winterfell sighed, dropping the parchment onto his desk, his hands now gripping at his scalp.

He'd another secret to keep regarding Jon, it seemed.

* * *

The Valyrian peninsula was thousands of miles away from the Children's home. Between it lay mountains and flatlands and oceans, deserts and great grass sea's and ruined wastes. Castles and cities and towns all round, the trip had little that was uninteresting to see.

Stinmirnahl did not stop for any of them. While interested to be certain, he was of single-minded determinedness. He wished for Valyria, and thus made for Valyria.

The Dovah were creatures forged in the image of Akatosh, Nirnian God of Time. Thus, time had unusual effects regarding their species. They were timeless, meaning they could neither die a natural death nor breed any form of offspring. Similarly, magic involving time had no effect on them, though they had a strong affinity for the stuff. This was why the _Slow Time_ Thu'um had no affect on one of them, and yet they could use it still.

In the case of Stinmirnahl, it could be considered both a strength and a weakness. Without knowing the toll that time held on the mortal shell, he too did not understand its constraints. Thoughts of days and months and years mattered none to him, for when he guarded the Soul Cairne there was only the here and now.

Stinmirnahl wished to discern Valyria with his own eyes, and he wished to do so quickly. As such, because he had little understanding of the constraints of his father's realm, he never stopped flying. A trip that would have taken a Valyrian dragon a week to make, due to breaks for food and rest, was cut down to a single day.

Jon was unlucky in this. He needed to eat and sleep and he'd a saddle sore large enough to rash the whole of his thigh. But there was no stopping a dov who's mind was made, and so he kept his quiet.

And, in all honesty, though it was not a comfortable trip, it was worth the wait.

Valyria was every bit as disturbing to view as he'd thought it would be based on his readings in Maester Luwin's and Aemon's libraries. It was unanimously assumed that it was impossible to traverse, and he could see why. Little of anything could be discerned aside from the front marches of the ruined city of Oros and the bubbling waters Smoking Sea really. From there, cutting half-through the remnants of Oros, a great black fog encompassed the remainder of the continent, a miasma of decay and preservation that shuffled on itself like a twister, a contradiction that should not be yet was.

" _Zu'u Dreh Ni Med Nii Het."_ Stinmirnahl rumbled, keeping his distance. He landed on a thick patch of stone that once held a lighthouse, the closest area not within the sphere of blackness.

"I don't like it either." Jon agreed, sliding down his neck. His descent was nothing that could be considered graceful, a fall that had him in a heap. Pins and needles raced through his legs, and he needed a few moments to right himself before approaching the edge of the dark, idly taking a layer of furs off.

" _Daar Fod Ni Kos._ This should not be, _Thuri._ "

"I know, and yet we are here. Are you ready?"

" _Geh_ ," rumbled the beast. His neck crane, his eyes sharpened, and he took in a great amount of air. Jon too did this, focusing his thoughts on the goal before him.

"" _LOK…""_ they intoned together. _""VAH KOOR!"_ "

Sky. Spring. Summer.

 _Clear Skies,_ a Shout that allowed its user to clear away fog and inclement weather. This Thu'um was commonly needed during Skyrim winters, where snow storms were as common as frosted roads. Beyond the Wall, Jon had become proficient with these Words of Power once more, and against this fog, it was more than just helpful, it was needed.

The miasma did not fall away. Instead, it was as if a tunnel opened, half a mile wide. From the wall of black, there was a hole in which a glimmer of light shone.

Cautious, Jon gripped his weapons and went through, Stinmirnahl right behind. Though the miasma was held at bay, the twister inside was not. It beat a heavy tone, making to push back the pair from their intention. The tunnel of diseased substance then began to grow once more, and the dovah behind Jon kept it open with a continued use _Clear Skies_.

After a time, when Jon's throat sore settled, he grew impatient. To fight the wind was something few could do, and he was tired for it.

" _Wuld… Nah KEST!"_

Whirlwind. Fury. Tempest.

A Thu'um that allowed him speed, the ability to carry his body as far as his voice could be heard. The tunnel of fog before him was soon lost, the wind unfelt, the glimmer of light he'd followed now eclipsing the darkness he'd travelled.

The Valyrian Freehold was his to see, his to take. The first volcano of the Fourteen Flames was what Jon took in initially, a small city-scape of melted stone and steel surrounding it. Where slag and magma should have been, and soot and sulfur too, there was instead clearness. A clearness very unlike water, however. This was crystalline, towers and spikes and coverings of reflective rock that spanned miles upon miles, far as the eye could see.

Roads were coated in thick diamonds, volcanoes covered – a city crushed and preserved as such. This was the Doom of Valyria, the Wrath of Jyggalag. The Daedric Prince of Order was a creature of forged of crystal, and his anger was of his body. All around, what he'd wrought on this land could be seen. It was impossible _not_ to see it, lest the decriers were blind. Of what was not crystalline, there was only shattered earth and… not nearly as much death as there should have been.

 _This place is not as dead as the maesters thought,_ Jon surmised, noting the mob of a couple hundred people approaching from crystal coated buildings. They were poorly discernable, their bodies covered head to toe in thick linens that hid their features. All Jon knew was that they were men, and that they were armed with Valyrian steel. Some held swords, some held axes, one wielded a mace spiked with the metal and another used a torch bearing green flames. He'd no clue how in Oblivion that torch could hold the substance, but he knew what it was well enough. Wildfire.

Knowing well what the stuff was and that not even he could survive being burned by it, Jon sheathed his weapons and held his arms out non-threateningly.

"I come in peace!" He sounded, his voice freshly ragged from his use of _Whirlwind Sprint._

"If that were so, the Dome would not have fought you," voiced the one holding the torch. It was hard to discern whether the speaker was male or female, for the voice was high like a youngling. "You'd no need to force your way through with such magic. You've not felt the waters touch, thus you're a threat."

"Waters touch? Dome?" Jon questioned, growing curious. "I know nothing of these! I only wished to see this land."

"You've seen it then," the speaker grunted, waving his torch of green fire. The people behind the speaker began to move, their arms raised ready. "Now you'll leave. Or you'll die."

Jon narrowed his eyes. He was happy to remain peaceful, certainly preferring it. But he'd no intention on leaving, not when he'd only just arrived.

They kept their silence, and when they concluded that Jon didn't make to move, they charged.

" _VEN…_ " Jon's eyes widened at Stinmirnahl's voice from behind, and he lunged to the ground, well aware of what was coming. _"GAAR NOS!"_

A torrent of wind burrowed into the peoples, lifting them high and slamming them all around. Of those that didn't make to attack Jon, they were holding on dearly. It was a pillar of chaos, of whirling destruction, sowing a twister of discord. _Cyclone_ was an aptly named Thu'um, making use of the Dovahzul script that translated to Wind, Unleash, Strike to concentrate a tornado in the space in front of the caster.

Stinmirnahl appeared then, his long body snaking out from the tunnel, head rising high enough to touch tower-tops. The people who'd accosted Jon gasped out their recognition and fell to their knees, some in praise and some in resigned horror.

 _Cyclone_ did more than keep them at bay, it removed their covering. The linen wraps that hid their features were scattered all over, and there was no hiding. They were men and women, and yet they weren't. Their skin was dead, stiff and cracked, with mottled flakes of a black and grey substance falling from their bodies in great patches, darkened blood seeping from what remained. It covered them like their linens did, head to toe. Not a single one of these people was without it.

Greyscale.

Jon shuddered. Though he knew he meant to have a batch of water infested with the stuff for when he'd the chance to reforge Valyrian steel, to see the actual effect it had on a person had him doubting. He wanted to never risk his own personage with such a vile disfigurement. The steel wasn't worth _that_.

"I came here in peace," Jon repeated, patting Stinmirnahl's flank. "The world over agrees that nobody lives here, and I thought it no issue."

"None do, save us." The speaker said, looking up, eyes never leaving Stinmirnahl. It was a woman, an ugly thing with a back-cracked jaw, a half-head of thin brown hair, and a single milky eye. "Our curse spreads quick things, and often we are sent to far off lands to keep the infection at bay. Valyria was where we were sent, in our case. Others have been brought to the Rhoyne, or to Sothoryos."

"That makes sense, and yet you do not. Greyscale causes madness when it covers the whole body, and none of you have a spot of skin that isn't touched of the stuff. How are you speaking to me?"

"The Brand," the woman said, her tone praising. "At first, our madness was true. We were husks, walking aimlessly through these lands in search of more to taint. And yet, we passed through the Dome, the blackness that separates this land from the rest of the world, and found our minds afresh the moment our feet touched down its other side."

Jon thought, and he thought hard. A vague theory came to mind, one that seemed to build on itself as his mind continued its pacing. Greyscale was a plague crafted by Peryite, but it was based in the water, and the waters of this world was gifted by Sheogorath. Perhaps the combination brought about the madness of Greyscale in the first place.

If so, that could also explain their lack of loose minds. Jyggalag decidedly hated Sheogorath with all his being, Order and Madness being opposites of all things. His mark on this world, the Brand as they called it… it could have the ability to cancel madness out. Possibly even halt the taint of Greyscale.

"Has anybody left this place before?"

She nodded, looking sad. "He thought himself free and wished to be with his family once more. He lost his mind the moment he stepped past the Dome, and then fell into the Smoking Sea before we could return him. The Brand is our salvation. Without it we are lost."

Jon nodded slowly, his theory feeling fact. "Well… Regardless, I am here, and I mean to stay. I wish to travel these lands and learn their secrets, and I will not be stopped."

"We could not even if we wished it so," sighed the woman, a swift movement of her wrist bringing her torch into a small patch of dirt. The flame did not spread. The other Greyscale infected peoples too put their weapons away. "And we've little reason to wish it now. Though we claim this land as our home, it was home to the dragons and their keep long before we came. How you have one, I've no clue. But you do, and because you do, you've the right to see the lands of your ancestors."

Stinmirnahl remained silent. They'd come to an agreement whilst flying that, in the case they ever met somebody, he'd keep his quiet. The peoples of this world think him a dragon, and though he was certainly greater than those creatures, it was an advantage that could be used. Both being underestimated in his abilities and overestimated in his pedigree.

A grim smile fell over the woman's face, one corner of her lips shifting like a moving ant. "We bid you welcome to Valyria, dragonrider. We are the Touched, those that control the waters curse, the last of those that remain living on the Smoking Sea. What we know, we will share. And what you know, you will share."

"I am Jon Snow," he announced, holding out a gloved hand. The woman approached and shook, a strong grip. Her release left scaly sinews on his leather-make material. Jon grimaced. "And I accept."

* * *

 **Ah… A lot happened in this one, and yet I didn't even reach the 5K word goal. Don't know how to feel about that.**

 **Anyways, yeah, Jon and Acorn banged. Some of you think that's cool, and to you I say yw. Some don't like it, and to you I say get over it. Fiction is fiction and they're just friends. They're not friends with benefits, just friends that did the dirty the one time. One of my best friends in the whole world started out because of a one-night-stand, and I see no problem with this being how their dynamic goes.**

 **The small expo regarding the rest of Westeros hasn't been fleshed out for the simple reason that hearsay and rumors are just that, rumors and hearsay. And yes, there is now a sixth Stark child. Some might say that I shouldn't do that, and I can understand the sentiment, but I did this for a simple reason. It'll be revealed later on.**

 **I had a lot of fun worldbuilding the Touched though! Next chapter will dive deeper into worldbuilding, and will largely involve a time skip. I'm hoping to hit the main series within the next two or three chapters, but I'm in no rush.**

 **If you liked this, please Favorite/Follow and don't forget to Review!**


	9. Ash

Valyria never wept.

The Dome, as the Touched called it, guarded this land from all the elements had to offer. There was no wind here, no rain- no summer nor winter. Day and night were not felt here either, a state of eternal dusk in which only a pale shimmer kept the totality of darkness at bay. A stark contrast to the rest of the world, where nature was king and mortals its keep. It was an alien sort of place, one that Jon hadn't found himself able to enjoy. Gentle breezes brought smiles to his face, as did fierce ones. He'd rather burn his skin red than not feel the sun again. This place was wrong. It should not be. Nobody should live here.

And yet, live here people did.

The Touched were survivors, through and through. A different sort when compared to the scavengers beyond the Wall, but survivors all the same. They did not allow the banality of Valyria to halt their advantage. This was the only place in the world where their minds could be kept, and they'd rather die than lose that. Many did in fact die, and yet they still found a way.

The Brand was more versatile than Jon had originally thought possible. It stretched across all spans of Valyria, from the back-alleys of Oros to the steep steppes of Tyria and past the centralized capital ruin that was oh-so-cleverly named Valyria. It covered mountain-tops and froze magma and bridged the sea greater than any piece of stone could.

It was the volcanic mountain-tops coated in the stuff that allowed the Touched to live here. The Brand was a see-through crystal, comparable to a thick, unyielding glass. The Touched made their home atop the First Flame, the volcano whose slopes Oros was built out of. At its top, where the petrified maw of a lake of lava lay, they found that even without the sun, they could farm.

With the light and heat that the stilled lava gave off, they planted crops, using the Brand as make-shift glass gardens. Over the years, they watched as their harvest withered and died, and yet they kept at it, their faith by and true. Eventually, blackened carrots and white-skinned potatoes were eatable, and Valyria was made livable once more. Because Valyria did not experience the seasons of the world any longer, these crops could grow a continuous pace, and due to the preserving nature of the Brand, they need not worry about their soil losing its bounty.

But the Touched, while thankful for their ability to survive, did not move to make Valyria theirs in truth. They were barely seven hundred strong and their Greyscale addled bodies were incapable of reproducing. They could not increase their population and thus could not spread their movements, keeping only to the northern tip of the remnants of Valyria.

This worked well for Jon.

The Valyrian steel that the Touched used was found all throughout Oros over the years, literally every bit of the stuff that could derived from the area, which ought to explain how rare the steel was since there was less than two hundred items of Valyrian steel in _Valyria_ and Oros had once housed a population of over three hundred thousand. And they'd not explored more than fifty miles outside of their make-shift boundary lines! The rest of Valyria was his to see, his to take, and he made to do so.

There was little need to bother them further.

True, they allowed him entrance, and true, they offered to trade knowledge, but that was only based on Stinmirnahl's arrival. Had he not been here, and Jon had always intended on combing over Valyria regardless, the Touched would have fought his arrival.

Though it was a risk and would certainly have not been a pleasant time, he felt he would have been able to win. The Touched were not a militaristic people, they were quiet farmers that were warier than a back-alley cat. A Shout that destroyed in a wide berth would end them.

So, he didn't stay in Oros. Being allowed inside did not mean he was welcome. This was their territory, and he'd no intention on fighting for it. Based on the fact that they skimped out on the other five major cities of the Valyrian Freehold as well as the many towns and ports and slave hubs it once housed, there should be plenty more steel for him to make off with.

And, indeed, there was.

"Ah ha…" Jon began, staring at the vault filled with his quarry. "Ahaha… _Ahahahahahahhahah-_ Ow! _"_

" _Thuri,"_ groaned Stinmirnahl, having just shoved Jon over with a concentrated breath of air. "Stop."

Jon grumbled, righting himself. They were now in Tyria, the city that was melded into the side of the Seventh Flame, situated along the southern bank of the Smoking Sea. As was the case with Oros, there was more of the Brand than there was sense, but unlike Oros there was no life here. There were remnants of it, skeletons of humans and dragons and even giants frozen in the crystal grip of the Brand, but nothing living true called this place home.

His first comb through the city proved fruitless. The lower reaches, he learned, were where slave and commonfolk lived, and Valyrian steel was a showing of nobility. Over the course of a week, he'd found a handful of daggers here and there and a single axe of the make hidden beneath of dust-covered table.

It was in the middle of Jon's second week in Tyria when he finally came across what he needed to know. He'd found another dagger and a strange bit of cutlery, and then came across the remnants of a library. Jon could barely speak Low Valyrian and his ability to read the language was even worse, but he understood maps decently enough, and the map of Tyria carved into the side of the library proved his benefit. The nobles and dragonlords of the Valyrian Freehold lived near the mouths of the Fourteen Flames, for that was where it was easiest to hatch their dragons. He had been in the wrong area the whole time.

The higher marches were hard to reach on foot, only a thin passage that once held a crank-based elevator made it possible. From there, Jon found the high homes of Valyrian nobility, and found the hidden barrack of a family Jon had the suspicion belonged to one of the Forty, though he knew not which.

Its vault was packed. Arms and armors of Valyrian steel were plentiful to see, as were trinkets of the make. Chests of gold and gems along with four fossilized dragon eggs lined the walls, and sat in the middle of the room was a single horn, great in size. It was black, obviously taken and carved from the remnant of a massive dragon, six feet long and wide as a man's torso. Bands of red-gold and Valyrian steel circled it, inlaid with glyphs of some sort.

Everything Jon wanted. Everything and more.

It was little wonder he'd broken into a mad cackle.

"Stinmirnahl, I've a task for you."

"Speak it, _Thuri._ Speak, and I shall listen."

Jon nodded, motioning to the obvious prize in front of them. "Go back to the lower city and find a large wagon or something to carry all this in. We'll collect them and then I'll have you take them to Brynden."

" _Zu'u Dreh Ni Mindoraan._ I do not understand. To gather these _Zun_ , the weapons, I understand. To _Wundun,_ to carry them to the Dwemer, though… _Zu'u Dreh Ni Mindoraan._ "

"I'm not blind, friend. I know you do not like this land." Stinmirnahl had grown progressively more sullen the longer spent in Valyria, and it showed. He would never have knocked Jon over out of annoyance had he been beyond the Wall. "You will take these to Brynden, where the Children will guard them, and I will stay here and continue to look through."

"I cannot leave you, _Thuri._ " The Dovah protested, sounding honestly offended.

Jon turned to his friend, noting with some amusement that he did not even fit partially into the vault. Only the tip of his snout was visible, the rest of his body was snaked around the crystallized volcano.

"You won't leave me. You'll find a nest, you'll carve us a home, and you'll return. Every full moon, make way back to me, to speak and gather the next haul of goods."

"And you? _Fen Hi Lahney Ni Dii Aak?_ How will you live without my help?"

"If you're that worried, each time you return you'll bring food for me." That would make things easier, being honest. "These arms are important, they'll allow us much in the way of comfort and allow me to understand my craft better."

He sighed. _"Geh._ Fine. I shall find your carry."

* * *

Jon Arryn hadn't believed Lysa.

His wife was drawn to flights of fancy and loved stories and rumors more than fact and truth. Jon often did not make comment on this, for her love of these stories was easy enough to ignore for his greater peace of mind. Better she read and dream of her tall tales than ween their son; Robyn was far too old for such. And in this case, just as most other cases were regarding her stories, he did not believe.

A dragon still living? Bigger even than Balerion the Black Dread? A dragon that, according to some kitchen wench that sent her letters from the Bloody Gate, passed through the Vale on the regular?

No, Jon hadn't believed Lysa at all.

And there was fair reason for his skepticism. Ignoring his skepticism for even a moment, for one to be larger than Balerion seemed less likely than a live dragon at all. As Hand of the King, he'd spent most of his time within the confines of the Red Keep and made habit of taking leisurely strolls through its hallowed halls. He'd seen the dragon skulls a hundred times over, and well knew the monstrosity that Balerion was. Large enough to swallow an elephant whole with room to spare, that dragon was a freak of nature that no other skull even neared in stature.

Dragons were extinct and were not coming back. The last of them was a sickly thing, he'd been told; smaller than a hunting dog. It had died choking on its own bile in a sleeping fit. The Lord of the Eyrie would allow that dragons once ruled the world, but they were dead and gone and nothing would change that.

He'd no reason to have believed his wife.

He'd even less reason to believe the writ of the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. They were an order that, while important in keeping wildling invaders out, was relatively useless in his mind. The letter Jeor Mormont sent out seemed more than impossible, and Jon believed Lysa's tall tale originated from that script.

But Jon Arryn was Lord of the Vale and Warden of the East. He needed to return to the Vale at least once in a year to confer with his bannermen anyway. To know of their sorrow and to hear their words of times since missed. He merely told Lysa that he'd mix her worries with his business and ask his lords their thoughts on the dragon. Unexpectedly, she chose to follow along for a change. His return to the Eyrie had gone as it had these last few years, a quick trip through the Crownlands that had little in the way of struggle, aside from Robyn's occasional fits, and he was near his castle when it happened.

A roar like none he'd ever heard before echoed through the Giant's Lance, deep and screeching and bracing, bouncing from wall to wall through the cavernous pass. Jon dove to the floor in a scramble, his men dropping the covered wagon that held his wife and son like a sack of potatoes in their own dash for safety. The pair of them cried themselves hoarse, Robyn in fear and Lysa in rage, but Jon hadn't the time to care.

Not when he saw… this.

Massive was not a word that described it well at all, and yet that was all Jon could think of in his state of numb disbelief. The shadow of its wings blotted out the overhead sun, casting a blanket of darkness over the Vale. The shadows made it too dark for Jon to see, but it was clear that it was a ferocious thing, and it was also clear that ferocious was a grave understatement. It swerved a sideways gant, parallel to the cliff-face along Jon's left, each beat of its wings buffeting his retinue like a sea storm, and then disappeared through the pass with one last roar, headed north.

"By the seven…" he mumbled, well and truly baffled by what he'd just seen.

"I told you!" Lysa cried out, holding Robyn to her chest. He was crying a honking mess of tears, ruining his mother's dress, and she cared not. "I said it and I meant it!"

 _And why would that matter?_ Just a week prior she told him of a city being raised on the Iron Islands that would rival King's Landing in only a few years' time.

"My lord, did you see?" His squire, Hugh, asked. A strong boy, with light blonde hair and sky-blue eyes and easy smiles.

"Of course I saw," Jon groused, standing with help. The pains of age did not come easy. " _Everyone_ saw, I would say. A bloody dragon, in my time? The world's gone mad, truly…"

"Yes, my lord. A sight indeed, but- I spoke not of the beast, but of what it carried."

"Carried?" Jon hadn't seen anything of the sort. Couldn't see anything, really. The shadow it brought about choked off all sight for the older man.

"Aye," one of his guardsmen added. "M'lord, I saw it meself. Dunno what it was, but there was a wagon held by its back claws."

Hugh nodded to the man. "That was my take as well. Do you know what this means, my lord? Somebody controls it, perhaps even rides it through."

 _Damn_. A dragonrider with a beast of that size would be the end of the Seven Kingdoms. No matter how much Jon loved Robert, the King of Westeros had grown fat and lazy and complacent over the years and he'd inspire soldiers little against a dragon. Joffrey would inspire even less.

"We ride hard for the Eyrie," decreed the lord. "We must make haste. I have to send a raven to Varys."

Jon might not have liked the eunuch, but he knew his loyalties. Varys was loyal to Westeros itself, and felt peace more important than lineage. One could hem and haw all one wished, but the years under Robert were peaceful, and the Spider would not wish that disrupted, certainly not by a dragon and its phantom rider.

* * *

Nine times had Stinmirnahl returned to Valyria, meaning that it had been nine months since Jon _Snow_ had kept to the ruined land.

Much of nothing had happened. He did as he made to do and searched for the treasures of the Valyrian Freehold.

Their steel was plenty to be found once he knew where to look, high vaults dug into upper caverns of the Fourteen Flames. Over half-a-thousand arms of war and pieces of protective gear had been found, a full score of ossified dragon eggs, and five more of those decorated horns. Thousands of trinkets and knickknacks of Valyrian steel was found as well, but that was not all Jon took.

There were books too. Scrolls and tomes and letters depicting things Jon could not understand, but he presumed would be good to have. Eventually he'd learn the language, and even if nothing came from it there would be something for somebody else to glean from their words.

Every time Stinmirnahl returned, tale of what happened in the outside was told. The Dov had searched relentlessly during his first month away for a suitable nest, combing over the mountains of Westeros and Essos all, any subtlety about his existence well and truly gone, and eventually found his liking in the island located some fifty miles east of the Wall. It took Jon a moment to think on it, but he remembered. Skagos.

He knew little of Skagos, save for that it was home to a bands of cannibal savages and the occasional herd of unicorns. There were three minor houses there as well, Magnar and Stane and Crowl. He knew nothing of its geography, nor of its culture and beliefs. Stinmirnahl hadn't much to share either, just that he'd chosen the land for his nest and he'd work to do. Apparently, the nest of a dovah was a private affair, one that was not spoken of until completed.

Jon hadn't known much regarding these nests. Paarthurnax had once allowed him entrance into his own home atop High Hrothgar. Hollowed from the peak of the Throat of the World, it was barely large enough to house the first greybeard and hadn't been decorated at all. Paarthurnax built his nest in such a way that allowed him no comforts, which suited his meditative lifestyle well. Stinmirnahl would not copy this, for he missed his creature comforts greatly during his years guarding the Soul Cairne, and so Jon was excited to see what his make would be like.

And then there was the Children of the Forest! More than half of their females were pregnant apparently, and the rest were making to follow suit. Jon was glad for them. They'd been good to him over his stay beyond the Wall and he felt this spark of life well needed. Hopefully it would keep their sullenness at bay.

With each month that passed, each return of Stinmirnahl, another wagonload of treasure was brought to Skagos. And when Jon felt he'd spent his time enough, he moved on to a different city.

Tyria was looted slow compared to the rest of the Valyrian Freehold. After Jon's second month in that city, he moved on, traveling a road of blackened stone coated in purple-tinted crystal. To the capital he went first, where four of the Fourteen Flames intertwined, where there were more high-marched homes for dragonlord nobility than there were lower level hovels. Three months he spent there, and once he felt he'd done enough, he moved further south towards the Scrylar, the city built into the Twelfth Flame that scraped against the edge of the Dome just as Oros did in the north.

Jon's process grew repetitive at times, to be certain. But this was a repetition worth more than anything in the known world, and he made to have a comfortable life free of worry and filled with adventure. What was a few months of monotony when compared to that?

From Scrylar to Garamis to Aenreel and all the ruined towns and ports in between, Jon gained his bounty. And he had no intention to stop. Wouldn't have either, had Stinmirnahl not arrived earlier than expected.

Jon had been combing through the lower cities of Aenreel, having already gone through the mountainous vaults up high, when his friend roared his arrival.

His friend landed nearby, and Jon greeted him warmly. " _Fahdon_ , I did not expect you for another week at least!"

" _Thuri,_ " rumbled his _Fahdon_ , his friend. " _Lost Kul Paaz Kos Het._ I have good reason to be here."

"Oh?"

" _Fin Dwemer_ , the Dwemer… They have _Kiin_ _Kiir,_ they have birthed their young."

Jon smiled. "That's good. Are they well?"

"It is, they are," nodded Stinmirnahl. "And yet… _Motmahus_. It is complicated. Nineteen new _Laas_ , new lives, were born to the Dwemer. One of the _Kiir_ was born with our blood, _Thuri._ A Dwemer with the _Dovahsos._ I know this. I could taste it."

Jon's smile turned a still thing, as if it were carved from the Brand surrounding them.

To carry the _Dovahsos_ meant either a dragon or a dragonborn, and it was impossible for another of the dovah to come here. He was the only dragonborn in this world. Should have been, unless-

" _Acorn,"_ Jon breathed. His heart thrummed heavily, beating against his ribs in a cadence of realized bewilderment. "She carried my child."

" _Geh."_

"But- That shouldn't be possible!" Brynden had told him quite explicitly that no man had ever reproduced with one of the Children when Jon had had a fit of curiosity. That the story of Brandon the Builder taking a Child to wife was just that, a story. The makeup between the two species was just too different. Hells, Jon hadn't even been able to hilt himself halfway into Acorn during their rutting, that should have been proof enough of their incompatibility!

" _Nii Los Lah._ It is magic, _Thuri._ The Dwemer are born of it. When I stayed at their tree, my _Lah_ , my magic… it brought these new _Laas_ into the world. And you, _Dovahkiin_ , you've more _Lah_ than I."

Jon fell to the floor with widened eyes, his hands tugging at his long black locks. "Shit."

Stinmirnahl looked on in confusion. " _Daar Ni Sahlo._ This is not bad. The more blood you spread across this world, the greater our _Bormah_ is made."

"That's- that's not what I meant." Jon hadn't given children much thought. He'd already had three in his first life, and while he loved those three dearly would have wished for more, the thought of having children with anybody that was not Camilla Hearthome… Astrid and Emer and Bolvar were enough.

It should have been easy to avoid. As a bastard, his marriageability was stilted in Westeros. That suited Jon well. Camilla had been the only woman he'd ever loved, the only one meant to carry his seed, and he meant to keep it that way. He hadn't intended to have any trueborn children due to this. But he'd not thought on bastards at all.

He sighed. _Plans change quicker than an ocean tide._ A proverb he'd learned from Theon Greyjoy of all people when a visit to the Winter Town brothel brought him the pox. Their situations were vastly different, and yet the saying held true.

"I've half-filled the wagon already," Jon said, motioning his hand to the east. "It's about three miles out that way. Bring it here. I'll fill it with what I've scrounged from these homes and we'll leave Valyria."

"It will be done, _Thuri._ " Sounded the dovah, who took to the air once more.

* * *

Unlike the last time they flew together, they did break so Jon could rest properly. He'd been working a long day prior to Stinmirnahl's arrival, and while he wanted to see Acorn and his child, he knew they would do well without him for an extra day.

Stinmirnahl had found an enclave within one of the Hills of Norvos, a mountainous region that suited the dov well. Their stay was a short thing. The sun fell, Jon slept atop the wing membranes of his friend, and when the sun rose again, they were off.

From the cavern of his rest, it took only seven hours to reach the Haunted Forest. It took less than ten minutes to reach the Children after their arrival beyond the Wall, and it was the dead of night.

Nothing had changed of this place. The clearing was still empty of animals with only the great heart tree at its center atop a high hill. Jon snuck through its roots, and found that though the outside hadn't changed, the inside was an entirely different matter.

Though Brynden was deep in the Dream, the Children were awake. They were speaking freely, cooing over crying bundles that were atop their knees and on the floor and suckling their breasts. They looked tired, but happy for it.

They all greeted Jon especially warmly, happily showing their young to him. Infant Children were curious to take in, more alien even than their adults. Eyes too large for their heads and skin wrinkled like an elderly man, they looked decidedly off. But they still held to the features of their parents, nut-brown skin dappled with white spots and furred ears and four-fingered claws and pointed teeth. To see a babe with teeth was strange, but these babes were strange all round, so Jon made no comment of it.

Eighteen younglings were shown to Jon, thirteen boys and seven girls. The only one he'd not seen yet was Acorn and his creation, and he grew nervous for it. What was he to do? How would he feel? Would it be one of the Children? A human? A distorted combination of the two? Would his get be a monster not meant for the world? Jon knew not, and with each thought, his nervousness grew.

One of the males directed Jon to the area he once lived in, where a wall of root and stone blocked way. He sang a hearty tune, and the wall receded.

Acorn was lain asleep on his old cot, looking as she always did, if a bit harried. Held by her side was a bundle of wrapped leaves making soft snores. Slowly, quietly, Jon moved to lift the babe and unwrap its covering.

It looked not like a Child but did not look wholly human either, and Jon could not discern its gender. Its skin was pale like his own but heavily freckled with nut-brown flecks half the size of a silver stag all round. There were five fingers on its hand, though the nails were thick and black and curved like Acorn's claws. A small tuft of dark hair sat on its head like a wispy crown. It was not wrinkled like the other infants were. Perhaps it was not what one would call a cute babe, but it was a fierce one.

And Stinmirnahl was right. He could feel it, taste it, the thrum of the _Dovahsos_ within this babe. There could be no question that he was the sire.

"Her name is Ash," Acorn said, jolting Jon from his musings. A girl then. His surprise startled his daughter awake, and bright green eyes a shade lighter than freshly rained grass opened in a sleepy state of confusion.

"After the tree?" Jon asked. Ash had surmised that she did not know who he was and was now reaching out for his face. Jon brought her closer and leaned down, shoulders lightening as she made contact with his cheeks.

"And for what remains of the tree when burned. If you are to be the fire against the ice, it felt fitting for your child to be of your nature."

Ash giggled as she fumbled her stubby fingers through his curly beard, and Jon felt his spirits lift, his earlier nervousness gone. This was no monster. It could not be a monster. This was his daughter. Sixteen years he'd been without the love of a child. Sixteen years he'd unknowingly missed with a fervor.

He made a decision then and there. Though Acorn and he would not be loving towards one another like he'd been with Camilla or Ned Stark was with his own wife, he would do anything for this girl. He would give her the world, damn the consequences.

" _Hi Los Dii."_

 _You are mine._

* * *

 **Fun chapter to write. I figured that the Touched could be more useful later on, as opposed to now. We'll see how they go later on.**

 **So, yes. Jon now has a shit-ton of Valyrian steel, and he's got a kid. And further, Jon Arryn now has seen Stinmirnahl. There's gonna be a major bounty on his head. He's not gonna care in the slightest, but still. Worries for the future.**

 **Ash is, of course, going to be important to the story dynamic. If there's one thing to motivate a person, it's the life and well-being of their own child. This'll help ground our boy Jon and give him reason to stick around Westeros, though he'll still have the itch for adventure and'll scratch it when it suits him.**

 **Oh, and to the one guest that told me "this turned to shit and you should feel bad." Thank you. I needed a laugh.**

 **If you liked this, please Favorite/Follow and don't forget to Review.**


	10. Skruul

Drystan Magnar tugged on his red-grey beard in growing consternation as his fellow lords of Skagos bickered before him atop his high table, their men eating a quiet affair in the lower hall. Their banners were proudly worn by their men; the green lobster on a field of white of Magnar, the driftwood tree on a field of green of Stane, and the plyflame on a field of black of Crowl.

"We've got to do something about it!" Lord Belmar Crowl beseeched, slapping a meaty hand against the flat stone table they feasted upon. His bowl of stew rattled with the movement. Big and balding and of a bellowing voice, Belmar was a hard man to ignore.

"And what can we do?" questioned Sindri Stane, Lord of Driftwood Hall. He was thin and tall, a reedy sort of man with an oily disposition. "You've seen it. We've all seen it. Big as a whale and twenty times as mean, belching fire strong enough to break stone with a roar louder than a warhorn. Men were not meant to combat that. Why should I risk my people?"

"The bounty!" Belmar annunciated, as if talking to a slow child. "A million gold pieces to the man that kills the dragon, straight from the coffers of King's Landing. Imagine what we could do with that! We could trade and build ships once more, we could bring crops and livestock to our steeps, and we'd have plenty enough gold left over to hire builders to fix our halls."

 _That would be well needed_ , he thought, taking a spoonful of stew _._ Kingshouse was the greatest castle of Skagos, the ancestral home of House Magnar, though to call it a castle would be a lie. Similar to the Mormont's of Bear Isle, the keep of House Magnar was built of great logs surrounded by an earthen palisade. It went deep into the southern rim of Skagos, an underground fortress of stone and copper and obsidian mined through the ages. And yet, though Drystan was proud of his home, he knew it could be more.

Skagos held a vested history and held a people that were once proud to be called Skaggossons. The last time anybody boasted of being Skagosi had been a century ago, when his grandfather rebelled against the Starks and their Targaryen masters. At that time, Skagos had amassed an army of fifteen thousand strong, men and women all, and for a grand five years the songs of freedom had been sung. A time in which islanders neared their dream of returning to the seas, damn the words of an ancient King in the North.

But Drystan's grandfather, ambitious and cunning though he was, was also a fool. He'd killed Lord Barthogan Stark during a peace-talk and brought the hammer of Westeros down on Skagos. Almost all of their forces had been put into the ground by the combined might of the Seven Kingdoms, their homes sacked and raided, and Skagos had never recovered. Certainly not when a four-year winter hit right after. So weak were they that Oldtown refused to allow them maesters now.

Much of Kingshouse could not be accessed any more, underground tunnels collapsed and histories gone. House Crowl's own seat of Deepdown was close to a ruin, barely functionable as a family home. Driftwood Hall was the only seat of Skagos to not feel the full wrath of Westeros, and yet it was still small and feeble when compared to the remnant of Kingshouse. Though House Magnar was significantly weaker than it once was, Crowl and Stane still looked to it for leave.

"And how are we supposed to kill it?" Sindri asked. "Between the three of us, we've perhaps a thousand ready fighters, men and women alike, and half as many children if we were truly desperate for numbers. Their weapons are bronze and dragonglass with a handful of iron arms. Not much armor, either. Put that against a dragon? They'd sooner march us out of our halls than deal with such a mess."

"We've got to try," Belmar declared. "This has been the longest summer I've ever faced, and a worse winter is like to follow. We need the gold, it's the only way. Unless…"

"No." Drystan stated clearly, taking in the way his fellow lord looked towards his hall mantle. "I know what you mean to ask, and I say no. I will not part with it."

"Drystan," Belmar pled, still staring at the weapon mounted above a great brazier roaring with fire. "Think on it, please. Think on our children and our people. If you sell it to the right person, it'd be worth as much as that dragons head is."

"It might. Still, I will not." He would never part with Sveik, the Valyrian steel axe of House Magnar. Drystan hadn't much left to have pride in these days and he'd certainly not give up his house treasure. Were he old and grey and without an heir, he might have considered it. But Drystan was still able and had three sons and soon a grandson. Sveik would not leave his hall.

Five hundred years ago, Durrel Magnar accompanied Prince Artos Stark to Valyria for some reason or other. Drysten knew not why he went and didn't much care either, but he returned with the axe and gave a symbol to his name. Sharp and cruel and wrought in a rune inscribed branch of carved weirwood, Sveik was the perfect northern weapon. It was the pride of his family, its name loosely translating the Rend in the common tongue, and now that it was returned to him, he'd not see it lost.

After Kingshouse had been sacked and his grandfather slain, Sveik had been lost within the ruined halls of his keep. Drysten's father, Asher, spent most of his life digging for the axe, eventually succumbing to the mining fits. Drysten had thought the axe lost and continued to do so until Fallon, his daughter of twelve, came across it in an exploration three years ago. She was just skinny enough to fit through the cracks leading to the old lords solar, where the axe had been unknowingly kept.

"If the beast comes near, we will fight it." Drystan decided. It seemed a safe statement, for he'd never seen the dragon go anywhere that was not within Skagos's mainland, an almost inhospitable place for humans. The shoreline was the only chance they had at surviving this place, with fish aplenty and farming soil. "If it keeps to itself, we will ignore it."

"It roosts on our land! We need to press our advantage before another lord catches tell of its patterns."

"I've made my mind, Belmar. Allow me to-"

A deep, reverberating, _familiar_ sound echoed through the Kingshouse. It shook the walls and rumbled the floors and echoed a building scream amongst his men.

 _Of course it shows up now,_ Drystan groaned, rushing away from his food, grabbing Sveik in a mad dash. _Right when I declare that I'll fight it when it does. The gods like to play games._

Belmar ran by his side looked nervous and excited, like a pup swimming its first lap. "Men! Bolt up! TO ARMS!"

His response was a harried grumble of slurs and cheers. Drystan couldn't blame the men, were he a fighter 'neath Belmar's banner he'd cuss him out too.

"Would it not be wiser to wait it out within your hall?" Sindri asked, looking suitably nervous. Smart fellow.

"Aye, it would be. But I made my mind and said what I meant, and my hand has been forced. We'll meet that demon and make to take the gold its head is worth."

It did not take long to reach the outside. The skies above did not open this day, hanging low over mountain hills. A vast, deep mist dragged the battlements, distorting Drystan's sight like an overfogged glass.

But even though much could not be seen, the dragon was much and more. Its bulk was visible through the mist, a darkness banking through the mush. Drystan gripped Sveik with fear, his knuckles white and his palms cracking.

Then the dragon descended, and he got a good look at the beast.

Massive did it a disservice. Serpentine and terrible, its teeth were great like swords and its skull a crown of four curved horns sharp enough to run a mammoth through. Scales like stone, grey and foreboding, with the slightest tint of green showing through, a coloration like Skagos itself. Its wings were great and bat-like, with a yellow pattern of some sort twisting over tis membranes. And-

" _Drem yol lok,_ greetings. _"_ the dragon said amiably, nodding its head lowly.

…There was more, _so_ much more that needed to be said.

"It talks?" Belmar whispered, the only one of them not stunned to the point of mute. His iron-wrought club hung loose in his surprise.

"He does," a voice said from above the dragon. Heads swerved towards the voice and caught glimpse of a man hitting the dirt from its neck.

He was big, bigger than Belmar to be certain. Six-and-a-half feet, Drystan would say, maybe a hair shorter. A long mane of curly black hair rested atop his shoulders, and a patchy beard of the same make was secure on his chin. He'd a long face, with grey eyes and high cheeks. Looked pretty, too pretty. Drystan would have cursed him a southerner with those looks had it not been for the dragon he rode.

"We've much to talk about, my lords."

* * *

Jon hadn't really a plan after this point.

With a daughter to care for and the dead soon to march, he'd thought it a prudent time to escort the Children of the Forest away from the lands beyond the Wall. However, as he learned quite clearly, though they were not men, they were northerners all the same and stubbornness bred true to all that lived amongst the snow. The Children were not against moving, now that they had young to care for it seemed a fair thought, but they would not settle for just anything.

Jon had first offered the Wolfswood. A high forest seemed to suit the Children well. And yet, though they were named the Children of the Forest, they did not require a forest at all. The Wolfswood was too much the property of man, and they refused to play their games. Beyond the Wall, the free folk understood not to bother the Children should they be seen. Men south of the Wall would not follow that same thought.

Then Jon offered the Gods Eye, a sacred place. And once more, they rejected his notion. It was sacred to men that followed the Old Gods, but the Children saw it as a final stand. It was a bitter reminder of times of war for their people.

The Vale of Arryn was thrown out, as was any land that had much of men. That removed most of Westeros. And Essos was of the wrong climate for them, it seemed. Sothoryos even worse. Fed up of their constant "No's," Jon asked where they wanted to go.

Unanimously, the Children pointed to Stinmirnahl.

He was the reason their numbers grew so quickly, and they wished to continue to increase their population. Thus, it only made sense for them to live where he did.

Which brought Jon to Skagos.

Larger than all the islands of Westeros put together, it cut an intimidating figure. Unlike a normal island, with sand and stone and livery, Skagos was all rock and steeps. Actually, to call Skagos an island did it a disservice. This was not an island, this was a mountain that rose from the ocean floor as opposed to the mainland. A mountain greater than any within the Vale of Arryn or the Fourteen Flames, large enough to be a kingdom its own, had it the resources to claim such.

Its peak scarred the skies, more than five miles high. Treacherous currents slapped listlessly against its great expanse, a harmless bug against the bulk of a giant. Deeply slanted slopes angled a southward trail, where dogs and wolves and unicorns roamed perilously. Of that that was not mountain, small patches of red weirwood leaves decorated the island.

It fit the description of what a dragon's nest should be quite neatly.

But Skagos was not as removed of men as its terrain would suggest. The Skagossons still lived here, and for the Children to feel comfortable, Jon had to claim it as his territory. They would not settle for less. Brynden had given Jon a strong lesson on their peoples, their customs and current plights, and he felt himself able to make his case.

Which was why he was now in the presence of the lords of Skagos. They were sat around the Godswood of the Kingshouse, a field of rock and stone with a pair of intertwined weirwoods of different faces, one smiling whilst the other frown. Hulking boulders covered in thick moss decorated the field, hiding their talks from the rest of the world.

"So," Drystan Magnar began, searching for words. "You ride a dragon."

"His name is Stinmirnahl." At his name, the dovah cried out from the skies. He flew a low canter, his ears open to threats and eyes keen on any that would disturb.

"Uh- strong name," stuttered Sindri Stane. "Guttural, like the Old Tongue. But it is not the Old Tongue, for we all speak it."

"Keep from small talk," spat Belmar Crowl. "Who the fuck are you?"

Jon raised a brow. "I've not yet been given bread and salt."

"Because you're not welcome! Guest rights are meant for guests, not intruders who-"

Lord Magnar held up a hand, bringing the Crowl quiet. He stared at Jon for a fair time, his blue eyes hard, and then he jerked his head. A man approached with a small scrap of bread and a bowl. Jon took it greedily and ate, happy to have avoided a fight.

"My name's Jon Snow."

"Name's familiar…" Lord Stane hemmed. "Jon Snow… Jon… The bastard of Winterfell?"

Jon nodded. "We're one and the same."

"Little Lord Ned sent ravens here for the first time since the Greyjoy Rebellion about you over a year ago," Lord Belmar chuckled darkly. "A pocket of gold to the man that returned you to him alive. One of my cousins took a fishing boat past the Wall for those coins."

"He's likely dead." Jon shrugged. What did he care for an ambitious lordling?

"Probably," nodded the lord. "He was a dumb little cunt anyway, tried to rally my men to his claim. Good riddance."

"Regardless, you are here, and you've a dragon." Lord Magnar stated. "Why are you here? Where did the dragon come from? How does it speak? Why does it listen to you?"

"So many questions," Jon japed, his smile thin. "I am here because Stinmirnahl is here. He's chosen Skagos as his nest, and I go where my friend goes."

"He keeps to the mainland, around the peaks. We do not, Jon Snow. Ours is the southern shore. There is no reason for you to bother us about this."

"Ah, but you're wrong. Beyond the Wall, I found more than just Stinmirnahl. I've a daughter now, and I mean to have her and her mother follow. Their clan is intent on following me, a people that seem to find my lead worthy, and I mean to have them here as well. And if they're decent, more clans will be welcome."

"Wildlings on Skagos?" hissed Lord Stane. "One of them stole an aunt of mine, raped her and killed her for a supper of onions she'd cooked. They're savages. I'll not have it."

"You will," Jon stated, walking over to the man. They were of a similar size, but Jon looked to have almost six stone on the thin lord. "I come here not to threaten you into submission, but to tell you lords a plain truth. For centuries your houses have held Skagos. I will not root you from your homes, but no longer will your control be held. I claim Skagos."

"A King-beneath-the-Mountain then?" Lord Magnar asked, his body shifting, hand hovering over the grip of his axe. The two men by his side swelled in outrage. "We've not seen an attempt since my grandfather, boy."

"Gods no," Jon snorted, honestly surprised. He shouldn't have been, now that he thought on it. It was a fair assumption. "I'd be a fool if I wanted to be a king. They've long hours and short lives, and I mean to live till I'm old and grey without a care to my name. No, kingship is not my goal. But I will be bringing peoples from beyond the Wall to Skagos anyway, and you'll not stop me."

"Mayhap we can't, but Westeros can. One raven and you'll have the war-hungry king readying his fleet to see you dead."

"A fair point," Jon allowed. He began to pace a circle around them, a slow movement that was deliberate. "But then, you'd foil your own people doing this. Send that raven and I'll do nothing as the southerners turn your keeps to ruins. Send the raven and I'll not lift a finger when they murder your men and butcher your children and rape your women. Send the raven, and I won't have to do anything. The South will destroy Skagos. And when they leave, I'll take what's left."

The lords of Skagos grimaced, recognizing the hard truth held in his words. Jon kept his quiet for a few minutes, allowing their thoughts to stew before he spoke once more.

"However, there remains another thought. There need be no destruction. Swear yourself to me. I'll see you treated fairly and ensure that your three houses rise beyond their current lot."

"And how'll you do that?" Belmar growled. "There's barely anything here. We've nothing to trade, nothing worth anything. Add the mouths you intend to bring here and there'll be no food 'fore long."

Instead of offering an answer, Jon just dug a hand through his side satchel, his eyes never leaving the lord. Then he found what he wished and tossed it to the head of House Crowl.

Belmar kept his stare hard but did spare a glance towards the ground where what Jon threw landed. A thin dagger with a fur scabbard lay at his feet.

"A piece of scrap iron?" The lord snorted.

"You must be quite rich to call Valyrian steel such."

His black eyes went wide at that, and he hastily grabbed the knife. Sure enough, the blade held the signature smoky ripples of spell-forged steel found only in Valyrian make.

"I'm not going to waste more time with you lot," Jon said. The three were staring at the dagger in undisguised interest. He pulled two more out of his bag. "We're all of the North and I'm not that big of a cunt. I will give you the pick-me-up you need. I've got a dagger for each of you, to use as you see fit. The next time traders come to Skagos, sell them or board their vessel and sell them from where they came. You'll have gold enough help your homes and people."

"Where'd you get those?" Stane queried, quiet with awe.

"Valyria."

"Nobody's been to Valyria since the Doom."

"Wrong. Plenty have been since the Doom. Nobody's returned, though. But none of the people that meant to scrounge Valyria had Stinmirnahl, and they weren't anywhere near as stubborn as I was."

"…I-" Lord Magnar started, straining to use his words. "If this is your bargain I do not… _mind_ ; swearing to you, that is."

"Drystan!" Belmar protested.

"He's got a dragon, Belmar." Sighed the lord. "And he's been fair. I remember my youth and arrogance, and I remember yours as well. Had we a dragon, we'd have burned the North without a shred of remorse, consequences be damned. We'd have sicced the thing on our enemies and allies alike to get our way."

"Dry-"

"Jon Snow could have done that from the start," Drystan Magnar harshly bit. "Could have fucked us all in the arse before we even knew it was happening. Kingshouse could have been an oven and we the serving."

Lord Crowl grew green and pale at the thought. _The colors of House Magnar_ , Jon thought with irony.

"I refused to sell Sveik because it was the treasure of my family and the legacy I mean to pass to Broden, my son and heir. But these daggers… I have no care for them. I'd sell them without a shred of remorse. You lot told me we needed money. Well, here it is. We need this."

"So, you'll swear yourself to me?"

"No."

Jon blinked, befuddled and confused and quickly growing in anger. " _No?"_

"I cannot bend the knee to a man that carries the name Snow." He declared.

"I'll not waste my time getting legitimized for your damn pride. Need be, I'll just torch you. The idea of the oven was one I hadn't thought on, but it held merit."

"I mean nothing of the sort," the man said, his arms raised in peace. "Do you have any clue on how our own houses were formed? How we were named?"

"Not a one."

"Few do," he allowed. "Magnar. Crowl. Stane. There used to be more Skagosi houses, but we're all that remain. In the common tongue, they're just words. In the Old Tongue, they've got meaning. House Magnar came first, we descend from wildlings. I'll admit my ancestry easily enough. The first Lord of House Magnar was a chieftain that figured out how to sail, and he led his people around the Wall to survive a harsh blizzard that destroyed their camp beyond the Wall. They worshiped him for this and called him Magnar. It means Lord. For a wildling to willingly call anybody lord is a rare thing, Jon Snow."

Drystan waved a hand towards Belmar. "Crowl can mean three things: Keep, Grow, Shield. House Crowl descends from House Magnar. A branch family that earned their lordship by deflecting a slaving raid from the east."

"House Stane started as simple fishers." Sindri spoke for himself. "My ancestors claim to have created the first nets out of twine and vines. They saved Skagos from a famine that was expected to have killed almost everyone off. Stane translates to Save, or Savior if you're using the correct tense."

"Lord, Shield, Save." Drystan outlined. "Our houses started from little and earned their names with their deeds. We cannot follow a Snow for that is not a name or a deed."

"You follow the Starks well enough." Jon countered, his brow furrowed.

"The Starks are not of Skagos." Belmar grumbled. "Skagos customs aren't mainland customs. We're of the North, but not truly."

"If you want us to declare you Lord of Skagos, you'll take a Skagosi name." Drystan Magnar stated, clear and concise and very serious.

Jon frowned a heavy thing, taking a seat on a gnarled ledge of stone. He'd never meant to not be a bastard. Bastardry made this second life a light and enjoyable thing. The names of Stark and Targaryen were heavy, with expectations beyond anything he wanted thrust upon him. He'd rather have been a Snow.

But this was different. This was not having a name that an ancestor made famous foisted on him. This was a name all his own, a name with which he would forge his own legacy for. Just as Hearthome had once been, a lifetime ago.

Did he really want that? A life like that?

No, not really.

But Ash… She was his daughter, and the spawn of one of the Children of the Forest. The Children were going to be moved to Skagos, and that meant that they'd interact with Man. Ash would interact with Man.

Some would accept her. Many would not. They would call her an abomination, a freak.

Just as he would for Astrid and Emer and Bolvar, Jon would do anything for Ash. Anything at all to make it so she'd the chance for a better life.

Even if that meant he take a fucking name he couldn't care less about.

" _Fine_. I'll take a name."

They knelt before him, Magnar then Stane and then Crowl with an air of begrudging acceptance. Drystan spoke for them, as he'd done for most of this talk.

"For the chance you have given our people and the daggers you bring, I name you Steel. Skruul. House Magnar pledges fealty to Jon of House Skruul."

"House Stane does as well."

"House Crowl will do so too."

And thus, Jon Snow became Jon Skruul, Lord of Skagos, with Houses Magnar, Stane, and Crowl as his vassals.

…It could have been worse.

* * *

 **Boom! That took a little while to figure out, but not nearly as long as I feared. So, we've got Jon a name and a lordship and a little bit of weight, and now the Game of Thrones begins in full. Had a lot of fun deep diving into the Skagos houses. Basically made up their lore aside from the rebellion that happened a century ago. That was legit.**

 **Next chapter will bring us to the main story. Still figuring out how it'll go, but yeah. We're finally there folks! Canon ahoy!**

 **Oh, and just as a note for those that are interested. Skruul is pronounced like School but with an 'r' in the middle of it.**

 **I also wanted to make a note. The reason I'm pumping these out is because I've got a major opportunity coming up in May and will probably be taking a break from FF by then. Wanted to leave some good stuff to read before that happens.**

 **If you liked this, please Favorite/Follow and don't forget to Review!**


	11. Return

The Wolfswood was aptly named, Robb thought. Everywhere he went, the howl of wind and wolf were his constant companion. The echo passed through thick ironwoods like sun through glass. Grey Wind howled back, a conversation with no face.

"Loud one," said the king from atop his destrier. Robert Baratheon was a towering man, six-and-a-half feet tall, and on his horse he seemed even larger. He'd a brimming beard of black hair and jolly blue eyes, a gut as thick as a barrel too. "Train it right and you'll not have a better companion."

"I intend to do that and more." Robb replied, gripping his spear.

"Har!" laughed the king. He slapped his horses' arse, and the animal cantered off. "You do that, lad! Come now! We've a hunt to have!"

Robb snorted and continued onward, slow due to his lack of horse. This month had been an exciting one. First, he found direwolves for his siblings, and then the arrival of the Baratheon host. Winterfell had life that Robb hadn't long seen. His father was to be Hand of the King, Sansa betrothed to Prince Joffrey. He was to be brother to the queen of Westeros. It still hadn't sunk in on Robb yet.

Bran loved it all, Sansa too. Bran had dreams of being a knight, of joining the Kingsguard. Sansa had always enjoyed southron tales, and to be queen was something she'd very much liked the thought of. After the announcement, she'd taken to following Joffrey and the queen around. At least her head wasn't wholly in the clouds, Jon had shown her well enough that story's and life were not one and the same.

Thoughts of his brother brought Robb to a grim place. Jon Snow may have been a bastard, but he felt truer than anybody else. A wild boy that loved fiercely and held his heart on a sleeve. The Stark clan had been devastated by his departure. To go beyond the Wall was dangerous enough for the rangers of the Night's Watch, but to go alone was doom. They'd heard no news of him these past two years, and though they did not proclaim such, it was assumed that Jon had died.

They'd all taken it hard, Robb's father, Eddard Stark, the hardest. His mother had tried to comfort him as best she could and found herself carrying the only thing that could distract the Warden of the North. Ten months after Jon had ventured off and little Ryon was born, the only of Robb's siblings save for Arya to entirely take after their father in coloring, dark haired and grey eyed as he was. Ned Stark loved Ryon, seeing much of Jon in the boy, but still was not wholly healed of his grief.

Truly, the direwolves had been a blessing. They brought Robb's family back together, a link that they'd desperately needed. Grey Wind for him, Lady for Sansa, Nymeria for Arya, Shaggydog for Rickon. Bran was the only one who hadn't named his wolf yet. Even little Ryon, a babe of a year who spoke only a few words, had given his wolf, the albino runt of the litter, a name. His first reaction to the silent beast was to clap and scream "Ghos'! Ghos'!"

"Lord Robb! _M'lord!_ "

Robb turned around, toward the voice. Hubard approached, one of the Winterfell guards, a man that had nine years on Robb and a carrying pitch.

"Yes?" Hubard hadn't been invited to the hunt. King Robert had invited all the noblemen of his court and the North that were able and willing to join. More than fifty men traipsed the Wolfswood after the Stag King. But Hubard was not one of them.

"M'lord, Maester Luwin sent me to fetch your father," Hubard breathed. He'd ridden hard, and his horse was proof of that. The brown mare looked worse off. "Riders approach, bearing banners. Northern banners, he says. They need to be greeted. I was meant to let Lord Eddard know, but-"

"Father is farther ahead," Robb said. He looked around and sighed, making note that he had trailed the back and was alone. "I'll greet them. Leave me your horse so I may get there quicker."

Wordlessly, Hubard dismounted and offered Robb his reins. Robb traded his spear for them and clapped the man on his shoulder. He took to the horse easily enough and made a quick trot back to Winterfell, Grey Wind following along with a lolling tongue. They'd only been some two miles out, and by horse it was an easy ride of ten minutes.

Maester Luwin stood waiting for him at the front gate, holding Bran by his scruff. His nameless wolf nibbled on the hem of the learned man's grey robe. "What's he done now?" Robb asked.

"I haven't done anything," Bran said, his bottom lip wet and pouting.

"He was making to climb again," said the chain-bearing man. Bran scowled at him. "The broken tower. He's sure of foot and I would not have cared, but with bannermen coming I felt it prudent to have him at the ready in case you or your father were too far out."

"Good thought." Robb allowed, smiling ruefully. The broken tower was Bran's favorite haunt, a former watchtower that was struck with lightning over a hundred years ago, setting it afire. The stone was twisted and mangled and the Lord of Winterfell at the time decided to create a new watchtower instead of repairing it, and it'd been called the broken tower since. It was perfect for climbing, which Robb's squirrel of a brother like very much to do.

"Can I go?" Bran asked, trying to break. Maester Luwin held a firm grip. "You're here now. I'm not needed."

"It's a matter of courtesy, Bran." Robb said. He knelt before his brother and ruffled his hair. Bran was a slight lad of nine, with grey-blue eyes, fair skin, and a mop of brown hair. And he was strong for his age, would be a fine man soon enough. "Our bannermen swore themselves to the name Stark and offer men and grain and tax to us. It's only right that we show them the respect they're due. When you're older and have a keep of your own, you'll have to do this too. Might be you'll be the Stark in Winterfell should I die before siring a son."

"You wouldn't do that." His younger brother said, both fearful and fully confident.

"I hope not," Robb nodded. He wasn't anywhere near ready to think on dying. "But some things cannot be controlled. Our own lord father was a second son. Just stay Bran. Do it and I'll help you practice the lance, like a knight. You wanted to impress one when you go down south with father, right? To be a squire?"

His eyes lit up, and he offered no more complaints. Robb chuckled and stood, turning to the maester he'd known all his life. A silent question in his eyes.

Luwin caught his mind. "Four banners, three I know and one I do not. Skagos banners, my lord, seen from my spyglass. Magnar, Crowl, Stane. I presume the last banner is also of Skagos."

"How far out are they?"

"Five miles, possibly more. It's a small party, only a few riders and a wagon led by goats by what I could tell."

"Did they send a raven telling why they were coming?"

"No," Luwin said, shaking his head. His chains rattled with the motion. "Though I hazard it a simple enough reason. I know all the banners of the North and yet do not know this one. I would say that it is a new house coming to swear their loyalty to Stark. With the king and his court here as well, it would be a grand time for them."

Robb nodded, taking on a thoughtful turn. Skagos did not have much in the way of communication with the rest of the North, Winterfell included. All Robb really know of the place was that the rumors surrounding cannibals and lords that still practiced the right of first night could not be trusted. It was a hard place that bred hard people. His father had met Drystan Magnar once and said he was a wise man, if terse. Robb hadn't met a single lord of the North that wasn't terse.

The courtyard began to liven, Northern banners meddling with the crowned stag of Baratheon and the lion of Lannister. Robb took a stool and sat his wait, Bran by his side. Arya had shown up fifteen minutes in, dashing from her lessons with Septa Mordane, curious about the approaching Skagosi houses. He hoped she'd keep her mouth shut during.

Their three direwolves were playing, wrestling amongst the mud. Nymeria had the advantage of size over the other two, but they were quick and worked together to pin her. Southern men and women watched with keen attention, wary and excited to see the rare wolves in their fight.

Horns blew from the rampart, one blow to signal an arrival. Two blows meant an enemy, and three meant war. Robb had only ever heard the horns blow more than once when the Greyjoy rebellion began, three horn blows that brought his father south of the Neck.

Horses began to file in, with men riding them and banners in their hands. A plyflame on a field of black came first, then a green lobster wielding a harpoon on a field of white and then a thin tree on a field of green. Robb knew all of those banners.

The last one was of more interest to the Winterfell heir. A grey dragon whose wings formed a circle on a field of white. No noble house had been ostentatious enough to wield a dragon banner since the Targaryen's, not even the Velaryon's who once had a dragonrider or two in their line. The banner was not held by a horseman, but by a wagon. Two large and overly furred goats near the size of a pony, each with only one horn atop their heads, pulled the cart, earning Robbs awe. _Unicorns,_ he thought. Arya was shaking in excitement by his side.

"I bid you welcome to Winterfell, my lords." Robb said, standing. Bran and Arya stood by his sides, Bran to his left and Arya to his right. "I am Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell. If you would be so kind, let us know why you have arrived before I share bread and salt."

"Lord Stark's son, aye?" The horsed man bearing the Magnar sigil asked. He was a man of twenty, Robb would say. Red of hair and blue of eye, with freckled skin. "Names Broden, heir to House Magnar and the Kingshouse. Next to me are Rickon Stane and Jory Crowl, both heirs to their own houses. Our liege lord Skruul thought it a good time to meet the Starks, and we followed suit."

"And where is your liege? Lord Skruul, you say?" Robb asked, looking around.

Silently, Broden withdrew a thick rock from a pocket attached to his saddle. Robb tensed for a moment, but relaxed when the man tossed it at the wagon behind him. It hit against the wood with a decisive twang, and a muffled curse sounded from its inside. The cloth covering of the wagon shifted around, and then it billowed out like a blanket, a man as tall as King Robert hopping out from it.

A man that Robb knew well.

" _Jon?_ " He asked, scarcely believing his eyes. But this was no illusion. It was his brother, had to be. Same hair, if long like a girl, same face, same eyes. Only difference was the beard and the height and the shaggy furs he wore. And he was confident. Jon had always been confident and sure in himself, but this was somehow different.

Jon approached with a smile, idly punching Broden Magnar in the side. The ginger groaned. "Stark. It's been a while."

Robb hadn't the chance to say anything. Arya did the talking for him. She rushed away from his left and barreled into Jon, hugging him harshly. He laughed giddily and held her high, swinging her around, peppering her face with kisses. Bran ran after him next, climbing over his legs and back like a squirrel, finding rest atop his shoulders.

"Where have you been?" Arya asked with a watery tone, unwilling to let go. Bran nodded from above. They were both teary eyed.

"I've been all over, sister." Jon said, waving a greeting toward the staff of Winterfell that recognized him. The southerners were suitably confused by their interaction, muttering amongst themselves. "Beyond the Wall, the Vale of Arryn, Essos; all over. I'll tell tale about it, I promise. But I'd rather do it tonight, where Sansa and Rickon and your mother and our father can hear."

Robb approached and hugged his half-brother strongly, Jon returning it with even more strength. Arya let out an _oomph_ as she was squished between the two.

"We'll wait gladly," Robb decreed. "It's damn good to see you, Snow. You've been missed. Damn good to see you."

"Skruul, actually." Jon said, grimacing. Robb nodded haltingly, unsure of how to think. Jon had always been a Snow. He was glad that he'd apparently gained a name and lands and vassals of his own, but it felt strange to call him Jon Skruul.

Bran took on a worried face, his lip wobbling. "Does that mean your not our brother anymore?"

Jon shook his head wildly, positioning Bran so that they were at eye to one another. It made for a sight, Bran now on Arya's shoulders, both clinging to Jon like a tree. "I'd be dead before I wasn't your brother, Bran. Just because I've taken a new name doesn't mean I am not your brother."

Bran nodded tearily and hugged Jon again. Arya grumbled his weight but did not move still.

Robb would have joined in, but he was heir to Winterfell and he'd a duty. He grabbed the bread and salt one of his guards held and offered them to the Skagosi lords. Jon took a piece idly, and Robb scrunched his brow.

* * *

"Perfect stitching's as always, Sansa." Septa Mordane praised, clapping lightly from her stool seat. The sun shone against her cloth covered cowl, making shadow over her face.

Sansa smiled demurely, idly patting Lady at her heel. Though happy to receive kind words, she'd grown accustomed to the septa's nature. A woman that only knew how to teach manners and never knew how to share experiences. Septa Mordane had been raised in a sept since she was a girl of four and hadn't much else to her name.

Before, when she was younger, Septa Mordane had been a woman Sansa loved like a second mother. Always there for her, a constant voice in the ear. An ever-present guardian who showed Arya her place. It was hard not to see her that way. But as she grew older, as she took Jon's lessons and learned of the world instead of stories and how important family was, that changed. Seeing the way Septa Mordane harried Arya, seeing the way she derided Jon, calling Bran too willful and Rickon too whining and Ryon dull… Sansa's respect for the faithful woman had taken a steep dive over these past few years.

"I can't figure it out," Myrcella Baratheon said, frowning. Curly blonde hair and twinkling green eyes, she looked the queen anew, only her cheeks were puppyish and her teeth slightly gapped. Her stitches were crooked, what was meant to be a stag looking more like a cat with horns.

"It's a skill all women must learn, princess." Mordane stated clearly, offering a fresh sewing pad and a ball of black yarn. A silent demand for the girl of eleven to redo her work. Had it been Arya, she would not have been so reserved in her reprimand.

"But I've never needed to," the princess denied, scrunching her brow. She took the sewing pad, but seemed confused. "Mother has people do stitches for me, they make me my dresses too. She says that a princess need not worry about such things."

"What I would give to have a life like that," Jeyne Poole said from Sansa's side, her eyes glazed in impossible dreams. Beth Cassel, Ser Rodrik's little girl, nodded with her.

"You'll not be a princess forever," Sansa softly said. Myrcella was similar to Arya in their apparent dislike of the womanly arts. The difference being that Myrcella had never really performed them. "One day you'll marry a high lord, be the lady of his keep and birth his children. It will be useful then."

"How?" Myrcella asked, her head cocked to the side. "If I were to marry into the North and meant to keep warm I might see the need, but in the south there is none."

"She's got you there." A deep voice sounded from the far of the room, jolting Sansa. She turned towards the voice, and dropped her sewing pad as her hands hovered over her lips, eyes wide and mouth agape. Jon was there, Arya and Bran hanging off of his neck like a scarf of children.

Ignoring any semblance of decorum, Sansa rushed to her brother and hugged him fiercely. Septa Mordane protested, but she hadn't a care. She missed this, missed him. He embraced her with a gentle strength, kissing her crown and whispering _I'm back_ into her ear.

Though it was improper for a girl to have any favorite brother or sister, Jon was hers. He was everyone's, really. Only Ryon and Rickon did not view Jon as such, and they were young besides. When she was a child, still looking to Septa Mordane for direction, she'd not liked him. He was a bastard, and she wanted to be the perfect genteel lady. Lady's didn't associate with bastards. But he took that as a challenge and would not leave her be. Their relationship held a rocky start, and yet it grew strong and fast and hard, and Sansa had been better for it. Jon did not tell her how to be a lady like Septa Mordane, nor did he demean the tasks of one like Arya. He instead asked questions, _why does this matter?_ and _who is this important to?_ and _how does this help anybody?_ Sansa hadn't thought of these before. Now, they were her ever-present thoughts.

"Who's that?" Myrcella asked. Sansa didn't answer, didn't turn away, too caught up in her half-brother's presence.

"Jon Snow," Beth answered, her voice halting and high. "Lord Stark's bastard son, Sansa's oldest brother. He's been gone for two years now. Most of us thought him dead."

"Better dead than a stain on the family," Septa Mordane grumbled lowly.

Sansa whirled to her, a blue fury in her eye. "Repeat that, servant."

She balked. "Sansa, do not talk to me like that. You must always remember your manners"

" _Manners?"_ Sansa echoed, eyebrows knit in consternation. "How can you talk of manners when you just wished my brother to have been dead? When you mock my family's anguish? I've prayed to the Old Gods and the New for his return, you know this. And yet you've the gall to talk on _manners_?"

"Sansa, my lady. Understand that-"

"You're dismissed, Septa."

"Sa-"

" _Dismissed._ "

Huffing, the cloth covered woman stood and walked away. The glass garden they had been taking their lesson in took a strained turn. Even through the beauty of this room, rich green grass and blooming flowers and running streams of hot spring water, the room was tense.

"You've grown a spine," Jon noted. He looked at her in approval. Arya and Bran stared at her in quiet awe. She felt her cheeks grow warm, warmer than anything her septa had brought from her before.

"A lot has changed." Years without Jon to keep her council had made Sansa think more, and the more she thought and the more she questioned the smarter and stronger she felt.

"Well," Jon huffed, moving to the stool the septa had been sat on. He picked up her stitching pad and made to work at it, only to frown. Septa Mordane had been making a seven-pointed star with red. He tossed it away and grabbed a new pad, a roll of blue string with it. "What are we making?"

Arya grumbled as she sat by his side and Bran looked on in confusion, unsure of what to do. He'd never sewn and was raised to believe it woman's work. But Sansa knew. Jon didn't let his being a man or her being a girl hold him back from things. She taught him to sew years ago, though he'd been a poor hand at it even then and he'd likely not had much practice since. And in return, he'd taught her to wield a dagger, the castle-forged dirk he'd secretly gifted her three years ago strapped to her thigh even now.

"Stags." Sansa said, a watery voice. She returned to her chair and held her stitching once more. "We're making stags."

* * *

"So, you're the bastard, hm?" King Robert Baratheon said, cutting at a shoulder of beef on his dinner plate.

"Was." Jon said, spearing a knife through the haunch on his own plate. One of the king's men had killed a wild bull during the hunt, and it was spread through the hall for feast. It was to be their last night in Winterfell, which meant the hall was especially loud. Sansa and Arya were on either side of him, barely looking at their own plates. Lady Stark glared from her seat on the farther side of the high table but held her tongue. Robb and Bran were by her side, keeping her comfortable.

The Starks had been glad to see his return. His father had held his face when Robb's man brought him back from the hunt, but once they were in private the quiet man hugged him strongly and did not let go for many minutes. Their words were sparse, stilted and unsure, but Ned Stark had missed him terribly. Sansa and Arya and Bran hadn't left him alone for the rest of the day, and Robb had joined in after his duties were settled. Rickon barely remembered him, sadly, but he was happy enough that his family was happy and trailed along anyway.

Perhaps the greatest surprise to Jon had been Ryon Stark. Gone two years and he'd a new little brother. Ryon was a precocious thing, colored like his father. Arya loved him best. Ghost, the albino direwolf, was his constant companion, never leaving him for long. _The runt of the litters both,_ Jon thought.

Robert Baratheon had been taken by the tale of his dearest friend's son returning from afar and invited him to the high table, wanting to hear more. Jon would rather have been with his vassals, Broden was one of the best drinking companions he'd ever had and Jory told the bawdiest stories, but he'd not made an issue.

"Right, Skruul." Robert nodded, shrugging a meaty shoulder. "Lord of Skagos, eh? _Warden of the Shivering Sea_. Hefty titles for a boy that was born a bastard." Ned frowned at his side.

Jon rolled his neck, offering a small smirk. The king hadn't meant it as an insult and Jon wouldn't take it as such. "The thing about bastards, your grace, is that we're a greedy lot. We see what we could have in our siblings and we want. But I'm no usurper, I won't steal from them. The Stark's were good to me and earned their keep and I would never repay that with treason. I thought it best to mark my own, and so I did. I've a castle on the way now, High Hollow it is called."

"Well, good on you then." The king nodded. "I'm sure it's a fine story. A boy of five and ten goes beyond the Wall and ends up a lord in his own right only two years later. Might even get a song for it. I remember well when Varys told me that Ned put a bounty on your return. Brought a tear to my eye. I would have sent some of my own men on the search, had the gods-be-damned dragon not been around. I'll expect a solemn vow from you though, to ensure you don't steal Ned's trueborn sons' birthrights later on."

"Of course," Jon stated, blinking. "I could speak the words now, if needed. Winterfell is Robb's, and Bran's and Rickon's and Ryon's before me. Sansa and Arya will have it before I do, their descendants before mine own."

"Do you swear that?"

"I do."

"Then it is done," the king proclaimed, nodding decisively. "We'll have a maester write it up. Try to take Winterfell and you'll be hanged an oathbreaker and your line struck from the world."

"Returning to the topic of the dragon," Cersei Lannister joined, her green eyes hard. Certainly, she was a pretty woman, full lips and high cheeks. But her voice was sharp and filled with accusation. She'd not at all been pleased when her husband gave Jon invitation. "Your sigil. Why use a dragon for it? Do you mean to imitate the Targaryen's? You said it yourself, bastards are a greedy lot, and there is no greater prize than the Iron Throne."

"Never, your grace." Ignoring the fact that he was a Targaryen in his own right. "I have enough to my name and need no more, certainly not the throne. I've had the good luck, or poor luck depending on who asks, to have seen the dragon close up. Far beyond the Wall he flew. Grey scales and big as can be. I thought it more than worthy of basing my sigil on, and I chose the field for the snows I found him in."

"I want it dead," Robert Baratheon sounded, his eyes glaring. He drank from a horn heavily then.

Jon wisely said nothing, taking a bite from his meat, watering it down with a drink of ale. Stinmirnahl was on Skagos, still working on his nest. It'd been seven months since Jon gained control of Skagos, and still his friend was not done. For perhaps the first time in their partnership, Stinmirnahl had forbidden his _Thuri_ from something. Jon hadn't been allowed to see the nest, and he was decidedly unhappy for it.

But Stinmirnahl was firm. It was not ready. He'd taken to having the Children of the Forest help with his preparations, and even recruited a band of nine score giants from the True North for construction, liberally bending them to his will. All Jon really knew was that it was soon to be finished, and that the Children had named it High Hollow.

"Oh! Did you find it?" Sansa asked when the conversation stilted. "I forgot to ask earlier."

"Mm?" Jon sounded, turning to her.

"The sword. Dark Sister," she clarified. The king turned to her sharply, as did Prince Joffrey who was sat on her other side. "You went beyond the Wall looking for it."

Jon hummed, taking in the interest of the table. His _Dovahsos_ thrummed with the want of bragging, to show off his power and hoard, and he acquiesced to its nature. Standing, he called for Broden from the lower end of the hall. The Magnar heir looked up at the sound of his name and walked forward, and Jon took his scabbarded belt from the man. He'd not been permitted to carry his arms at the high table.

He undid his belt buckle, the two swords strapped to its sides falling. He placed them on the table and handed one of the scabbards over to his father.

Lord Eddard took the sword with unhidden interest. He unsheathed it and whistled as the smoky sword's steel rang out. The Kingsguard that stood behind the king tensed at the sound. "Where was it?"

"Brynden Rivers, the Targaryen Great Bastard that last held it, had a child with a woman beyond the Wall," Jon said. The greenseer had given his leave to make up a tale. So long as they thought him dead, the albino cared not what was said. "That child took the sword and joined up with a clan, but their numbers were low. I found their leader, a man named Garamun, and challenged him for it. Brynden's grandson. He thought the steel made him the better warrior, and…"

"Got his head bashed in." Robert Baratheon finished, grinning. He took the sword from his Hand, inspecting it with an appreciative eye. "Ah, would that I could have done the deed myself. A well-earned honor! Reminds me of my own youth. Were I not the Lord of Storm's End, had I been the second or third son like my brothers, I'd have ventured the Free Cities in search of glory. What I would do with some Valyrian steel…"

"You should have it then," Cersei said. "The sword of a king deserves to go to a king. Or to Joffrey. Or to Jaime, to better protect us."

"I'm many things, woman. But I'm no thief." Robert snorted, sheathing the sword.

"And I would not give it away even if it were a royal demand, my queen." Jon said, taking the blade back from the king. She glared at him. He held his hands up. "No lordly house would. But I'm simple enough. If you've a good price, I might be willing to sell some steel."

Arya nudged his side with her elbow, looking horribly disappointed. "You went through all that trouble and left us for years for it and you'd sell it?" By her side, Tommen Baratheon looked on in confusion. She'd been forced to escort him, just as Sansa escorted Prince Joffrey, though she'd been happy for it. Arya had not at all been happy with her role.

"Oh, no." Jon denied, shaking his head. He patted her head consolingly. "Never. Dark Sister is mine. But Brynden Rivers was obsessed with Valyrian steel. When he learned he was being sent to the Night's Watch, he looted the Targaryen vaults and stole almost all of the material they had in his sullenness. Daggers and trinkets and even maester chain-links. I took it all from Garamun's clan and spent about a year figuring out how to rework the stuff."

"A smith then?" The queen taunted, her smile mocking. "How appropriate for your origins."

"Cercei," Robert growled. A warning in his tone.

Jon shrugged, uncaring. "I was born a bastard, your grace. We've all to work within our means. Before I journeyed past the Wall, I thought about being a sellsword or a master-at-arms or even a maester, but the forge called to me the strongest. I know my craft and I know it well, and I am proud of my work. I was told that there were only a handful men in the whole of the known world that knew the secret to reforging Valyrian steel. Now there's one more."

As proof, Jon removed his other sword from its scabbard. It too was Valyrian steel, though its ripples were lighter in quality and less noticeable when compared to Ice or Dark Sister. A subtle sword, thin and long, looking much the same as Dark Sister. Where Dark Sister was decorated with rubys, it held sapphires.

"Made it from those trinkets two months ago, still fresh forged." Jon said. Cersei had shut herself up after Robert's reprimand. "I call it Light Brother, to match Dark Sister. They'll be the twin swords of House Skruul. And I've enough steel left to forge one last sword. So, yes. If you speak the right price, I might be willing to create another blade."

"Could you make me a sword?" Arya asked, her interest keen. The queen looked at her as if she were a rare breed of snake then, and Catelyn Stark barely held back a reprimand.

"Mayhap," allowed Jon, smiling.

"You should come to the capitol then," the queen said. Her smile was back, curious and challenging, with something else hidden in its depths. "Tourney's to fight and high lords to find that would be willing to pay a fair price. Might even a woman to marry."

Robert nodded from her side. "I like it. Ned'll be my Hand, and you'll come south as his son and bannerman and sworn shield."

Jon's father protested. "There's no need-"

"Alright."

He blinked, turning to Jon. A severe frown on his face. "You do not need to, Jon. The North breeds true, and you've a land to care for."

"I don't have much land to do anything with right now, father. High Hollow is under construction and Skagos has survived for millennia without me. I meant to come down to Winterfell to be with my family once more, and if my family makes to go even further south, then I'll be coming with. If nothing else, I'd like to see the rest of Westeros before I settle."

"Good!" Robert nodded, bellowing for a flagon. A serving wench came to him with one, and he held her tightly. She laughed. "Then we've a feast to have!"

* * *

The next day was one of packing and prepping. Jon had arrived just before the royal party meant to leave for King's Landing. Since he'd never unpacked his wagon, he spent much of his remaining time with Robb, training and trading tales. Surprisingly, Tyrion Lannister, the Imp of Casterly Rock, joined in for talks, bringing wine. The three had drank and debated and had a surprisingly jolly time till the sun rose this morn. Tyrion was raring for the Wall, intent on pissing off its edge. Robb would be staying in Winterfell, along with his mother and Rickon and little Ryon. Bran and Arya and Sansa would be going south with Jon.

Of his vassals, Jon decided to have all but Rickon Stane return to Skagos. While he would be happy to have the lot of them down south, they were not bred for such climates and hadn't the willingness to play word games. That, and he didn't want to pay their tabs. Broden and Jory had spent almost all of their time in Winterfell in the Winter Town brothel, marveling at the women that would fuck them for some coppers, something Skagos certainly did not have. King's Landing was known to be home to whores of far higher quality, and they would not be able to resist. Rickon was at least devoted to his wife and hadn't strayed for a cheap cunt.

"You sure you want to go south?" Uncle Benjen asked. He'd been beyond happy to have seen Jon, and Jon he. But he'd also been a constant voice in the ear of his nephew, asking for him to join the Night's Watch.

Jon was securing his horse, a grey-brown filly that his father had gifted him. "Why wouldn't I?"

"The Wall could use a man like you."

"The Wall could use _any_ man, uncle. I've seen it. Spoke to Lord Commander Mormont and kept study with Maester Aemon. Less than a thousand men it holds, last I heard. Likely fewer now."

"You've your own people to care for," Ben then tried.

"And my people can care for themselves. What's brought this on?"

"I don't like it." Benjen admitted. "You going south. Any Stark going south. I like it none. Last time that happened, I lost my father and brother and sister. I'd rather not lose my last remaining brother and my nieces and two of my nephews."

"I'm not planning on storming the Red Keep for a prince's head," Jon said, face stern. "What happened with Uncle Brandon and my grandfather… There will be no repeating it. I won't allow it."

"And if you can't stop it?"

"I can."

"But if you can't."

Benjen was imploring. Near begging. Jon liked it little when the man he took after acted in this manner. It suited him none.

"When I was beyond the Wall, I thought I might die a time or two. The cold was my constant enemy. You know the feel well enough, the lack of feeling. And I told myself, if I was to die, I'd not go meekly. I struggled and fought and won in the end. If I am to die down south, I'll do the same."

"But why would you risk death once more? Don't go south. Stay in the North, where you belong."

Jon shook his head. He'd made his choice and he was intent on keeping it. Arrogance was strong in him, but he thought it arrogance well earned. His use of the Thu'um was strong once more, he was armed enough to take on any man, and should it be needed, Stinmirnahl was ready for battle.

"I wish you safe travels," Jon said instead, hugging his uncle. Benjen silently relented and returned the hug, strong like an ox it was.

"I'll need them." Benjen joked, smiling awkwardly. "Three prisoners and the Imp. I don't know which is worse."

"Give him some wine and it'll be the prisoners, without question."

"I'll have to stock up then. Ned'll be gone and Winterfell's stores have already taken a hit. What's another flagon missing?"

Jon laughed, and clapped his uncle on the back. Benjen moved away, and Robb approached.

"You keep them safe, you hear Sn-Skruul?"

"I'll do that and more, Stark."

They held each other's gaze, their words hard and serious. Then, they embraced one last time, lasting longer than either meant to happen but neither minding. They only separated when a Lannister guard laughed.

"I'll have ravens this time," Jon said. "I won't forget to write."

"Better not." Robb nodded, a small scowl on his face. "If I have to hear of you from somebody else…"

Shrugging off the threat, Jon patted Robb on the head, his hand slapped away with an even stronger scowl. Then they laughed, and that was it.

Jon mounted his horse, bid goodbye to the rest of Winterfell, and rode side-by-side to Bran, who looked ready to burst in giddiness. Through the Hunters Gate did they ride, trailing the royal party who were already about a mile out.

High above the gate, a crow stood watch. In the light, it looked to have three eyes. It cawed and nodded, and then flew off in search of corn.

* * *

 **Not necessarily a small chapter, but it wasn't overly large either. Jon was back, and then he wasn't. But you'll notice some changes.**

 **Bran didn't fall from the tower. Jon and co. arrived just before that happened, so Maester Luwin grabbed Bran before he could disturb the twins. This means no cripple, and no assassination. A slight ripple having the potential to cause massive change to the story. And Sansa is quite different from her original character. Less in her head and more understanding of the world.**

 **In the story, when Bran fell, the royal party was delayed by about a week because Robert wanted to pay his respects and Ned was in grief. Without it, they left on time. Dunno if that'll change anything, but it's something to note.**

 **Can't really tell you what Cersei's cooking up. Just know it's something.**

 **If you liked this chapter, please Favorite/Follow and don't forget to Review!**


	12. Crossroads

Arya hated the carriage.

While large and comfortable, it was also stuffy, smelling overly of sweet perfumes and was filled with the chatter and the body heat of too many people. Ladies of noble birth all. Sansa could stomach it, but she'd always liked being a genteel lady and hadn't an issue with the arrangement. The community of hairs being braided and lordly gossips told with breathy notes of excitement brought Sansa right in her element.

But Arya did not enjoy this. Septa Mordane was in the carriage too, never letting Arya away from her stitching's and practicing the bells. She didn't want to be a lady. She wanted to be a warrior, a knight. The armored protectors of the realm, only she'd be a woman. Arya'd rather have been sent to foster on Bear Isle with the Mormont's than go to King's Landing. They would teach her to fight. Teach her to be strong, like the warrior queen Nymeria who subjugated Dorne, or Visenya Targaryen, the sister-wife of Aegon the Conqueror, who wielded Dark Sister as good as any man and rode the dragon Vhagar too.

Thoughts on dragons and Dark Sister brought Arya to Jon, her brother that now held a standard bearing a dragon and wielded that same Valyrian steel sword.

He didn't need a carriage. He was a man grown, big as the king. Father said he could be even stronger. He rode side-face to the carriage, Bran at his side. It wasn't fair. Arya should have been out there with them, taking in the sun and sights. Nymeria and Lady and Summer, the wolf pup Bran had finally named, were out there with him. Why couldn't she be too?

The carriage halted, horses rustling all around with harried noises. One of the Lannister ladies that liked to talk more than listen opened the blinds, letting low rings of sunlight into the carriage.

"What's going on?" she loudly asked.

"We've reached the Crossroads Inn," a voice Arya didn't know answered. One of the Baratheon men likely, or one of the Lannister ones. "The king has bought out the inn at the queen's request."

"How grand!" That same lady exclaimed, clapping the once. "Her grace treats us kindly. As does her husband, of course."

Arya was glad to have a new place to sleep, but she was angry too. Angry and disappointed. _We're already at the Crossroads,_ she thought with a frown.

That meant she'd been shunted into that carriage for longer than she'd imagined. The Crossroads Inn was stood on the borders of the Vale, the Riverlands, the Crownlands, and the Westerlands, sat right next to the Ruby Ford, where King Robert killed Prince Rhaegar, where he bashed in the silver prince's ruby-gilded chest with his great warhammer.

Arya had looked over Maester Luwin's maps before they left Winterfell. The trip from Winterfell to King's Landing was meant to take a day or so over a month. The Crossroads Inn was three weeks into that month. She'd spent three weeks in that stuffy carriage, only allowed out to use the pot and sit at camp feasts.

Arya rushed out of the carriage the moment the door was unlocked, ignoring her septa's protest. There may or may not have been another lady she'd bowled over. She took in the air for what it was, clean and fresh and warm, and made for the Trident, the thick river that gave the Riverlands their name. Once Arya reached its shore, she splashed her face with green-blue water. It felt good.

"There she is," her father said, approaching from behind. He wore leathers today, and held a spear at his side. He only ever kept a spear when he meant to go hunting.

"Can I go with you? I'm good with my bow!" Anything to give her something to do. Her fingers still hurt from the other day when she'd pricked them with a needle after the carriage rocked heavily.

He smiled lightly, reaching down to pat her damp hair. "I'm afraid not, little one. Robert has asked me to be the only to join him for the hunt. Only us. Would that I could have you come with. We'll find things to do soon though, King's Landing is nearby."

"It's still too far," she frowned, sucking at her teeth. "I don't want to be stuck in the carriage anymore."

His smile turned strained, a thoughtful stare reaching the clouds. " _That_ I can allow. Go find Bran, I'll allow you to bunk with him for the rest of the trip."

Giddily, she hugged her father. He patted her hair once more. They separated when a herald called for him. He went east, towards a small clearing of stone that sloped into the mountains of the Vale. There might be goats for him to kill.

Arya meandered through the Crossroads, looking through the gulf of people, searching for her brother. He wasn't anywhere, from what she could see. Bran wasn't outside, nor was he in. Nowhere she looked could she find her brother, nor could she find Jon or the direwolves.

But she did come across a nice boy of fourteen named Mycah, curly red hair and clear black eyes. He was the son of the inn's butcher. He showed her around and kept her entertained for a while. Then Arya saw that he had sticks he'd carved like swords hidden in a larder and she asked to spar with them. He'd not refused. This was to be loads more fun than anything she'd done since leaving Winterfell.

They found a small clearing that overlooked the river, a good mile away from the in, far enough gone from prying eyes. There, their battle began. Mycah was big and strong and had at least three years on her, but Arya was quick. For every hit he got in on her, she gave two more.

Many minutes passed, an hour at most. Arya's arms were purple with bruises, and she was happy for it.

Arya lunged her stick at Mycah, but then he cheated. He back up and grabbed it and whacked her fingers with his own stick. She cried out a dropped it, and a voice laughed from behind them. A horrified cry of _"Arya?"_ sounded too. Female. Familiar.

Arya whirled around, taking in Sansa and Joffrey on a walk. They approached.

"What are you doing here?" Arya asked, annoyed. Though she loved her sister, she'd spent three weeks in the same place as her. Arya hadn't invited Sansa for a reason. "Go away."

"Your sister?" the prince asked her sister. Sansa nodded. He turned to Mycah. "And who are you?"

"Mycah, m'lord."

"He's the butcher's boy," Sansa said.

"He's my friend!" Arya retorted.

"A butcher's boy that wants to be a knight, ey?" Joffrey mused, taking his own sword out idly. Arya felt fear. "Pick up your sword, _butcher's boy_. Let's see how good you are."

"She asked me to, m'lord." He begged, noting well the live steel in the hands of the prince. "She asked me to."

"I'm your prince," Joffrey said with a dark tone. "Not your lord. And I said pick up your sword."

"Is not a sword, my prince. Is only a stick."

"And you're not a knight," Joffrey said, his sword slowly moving upwards until it touched at Mycah's cheek. "Only a butcher's boy. That was my lady's sister you were hitting; did you know that?"

"Stop it!" Arya exclaimed, looking on wildly. How could this have happened? Sansa remained quiet from behind, looking troubled. Arya was far more troubled than Sansa.

Joffrey bit his lip, looking amused. He pressed his sword into Mycah, a red line trickling down his cheek. "I won't hurt him… _much._ "

It happened in an instant. Arya swelled indignantly and whacked Joffrey with all she had in the back of the head, her stick splitting as it let out a loud _crack_ that echoed the clearing. He staggered and whirled around, roaring curses. Mycah ran for the trees as fast as his legs would take him. She swung at him again, but this time Joffrey caught the blow on his sword and sent her broken stick flying from her hands. She danced around as he kept swinging, sometimes barely escaping the edge of his sword. Then she tripped on her dress and fell to her back.

Joffrey stood above her, pointing his sword right at her neck. A black rage could be found on his face. "I'll gut you, you little cunt!"

Then a grey blur flashed past her, and suddenly Nymeria was there, jaws closed around Joffrey's wrist. His steel fell from his arms as the wolf knocked him from his feet, and they fell to the grass, the wolf snarling and ripping at the prince. He shrieked in pain. "Get it _off! Get it off!"_

Arya's voice cracked like a whip. " _Nymeria!_ "

Her wolf let go of Joffrey and trailed by Arya's side. Idly, Arya scratched at her ear. _Good girl_ , she thought. And while her thoughts were on Nymeria, they trailed farther gone. Nymeria had been with Bran and Jon. For her to be here now…

Her answer came quickly. From the trees, Jon appeared, Bran at his side. They were dirtied and sweaty, tree leaves littering their clothes like bandit poachers. They looked to have been training. Mycah was with them too. Summer and Lady trekked along their sides.

"What in the seven hells was that?" Jon asked, snarling. He approached boldly, grabbing the prince by his bloodied arm. Bran ran to her flank, helping her from the grass. He'd always been quick, her little brother.

" _Ow!_ " Joffrey cried out, holding Jon's arm with his uninjured arm. Arya looked on with righteous amusement.

"What kind of man attacks a boy and girl for nothing?" Jon asked, his grip tight. "Challenges them and cuts at them for no reason? You threaten your betrothed's sister, how do you think things would have gone for you if you, what were the words? If you _gut her_."

"I'm a prince!" Joffrey said, looking wild.

"You know what happened to the last prince to act like this? Your father killed him and stood over the ashes of his kingdom. You already know Lord Eddard would go to war for family, for what happened to his father and brother and sister. What do you think he would do if you killed his daughter? What your own father would do?"

Joffrey scowled and ripped his arm away, scrambling gone. Sansa made to follow, but Jon stopped her. He held her and hugged her. Arya only then noticed the tears streaming her cheeks. He whispered something in her ear, and she said something back, and they kept a hushed talk.

Then Jon let go, and he turned to Arya. Everything that had just happened hit her hard then, how close she'd been to dying. She rushed at him and held him firm and had a hard cry. The wolves howled to mask her wails.

* * *

Ned watched as they approached with a worried grimace. Arya was a mess of splotchy red cheeks, Sansa barely holding. Jon had an arm on each of them, quietly talking into their ears. Bran was outside, keeping the direwolves calm. The butcher's boy was sat in a chair of chains in the middle of the room.

They were in Darry now, the keep of House Darry. The closest castle to the Crossroads, twelve miles south of the inn. Robert had appropriated Ser Raymun's audience chamber. The room was crowded, too crowded. With the king's men, Darry men, Lannister men, and Stark men all crammed into a castle far too small for them, tensions burned hot and heavy.

Robert slumped in Darry's high seat at the far end of the room, his face closed and sullen. Cersei Lannister and the prince stood beside him. The queen had a hand on Joffrey's shoulder. Thick silken bandages covered the boy's arm.

Ned and Robert had been hunting when a quarter score of Lannister men rode them over and told tale of Joffrey being mutilated. Robert may not have been especially caring for his son, for any of his children really, but he grew worried still and they made return without a catch. He'd not at all been happy to find the mutilation was just a wolf bite that hadn't gone deep, but Cersei had insisted for a trial. Robert did not fight her.

"Let's get this over with then," Robert grunted, waving a hand. Cersei had a dusky glare in her eyes.

"That girl and the butcher's boy attacked my son." She said, her tongue harsh and direct. Ned had once thought Cersei to have just been a highborn lady of the deep south that was given the chance to be queen, a spoiled thing that kept quiet and had children. That thought changed upon her stay in Winterfell. He now saw she'd much of her father in her, the cruel manner of speech he possessed. "That wolf nearly ripped his arm off."

"That's not true!" Arya said, looking defiant. Her defiance fell after a moment. "She just- bit him. A little."

Robert smiled awkwardly, unsure. There was a look in his eye, one Ned knew well. Regret and longing. Arya didn't look much like Lyanna, didn't have the black hair and dark eyes and lithe frame of her aunt, but their mannerisms were very similar.

"He was hurting Mycah," Arya continued. The red-haired boy nodded in his chains, unable to speak. He'd been gagged, Ned saw.

"Joffrey told me what happened," Cersei said. "You and that boy beat him with clubs while you set your wolf on him."

"That's not what happened!" Arya cried out.

"Yes it is!" Joffrey proclaimed. "They all attacked me and she threw my sword in the river!"

"Liar."

" _Shut up!_ "

"Enough!" Robert roared, standing. He looked harried. Ned felt far worse. "He tells me one thing, she tells me another… Seven hells- what am I to make of this? Ned, bring your other daughter up. Now."

Quietly, he looked to his oldest daughter. Sansa's eyes were wide, her body shaking. She was having a panic. Jon bent down and whispered something in her ear, and her eyes widened further. She looked to him and shook her head. He nodded his back, and then mouthed a word. Ned saw it, understood it. _Pack,_ Jon had said. Brother and sister held a stare that was broken only when Robert banged at an armrest. Sansa approached, skin reflecting a pale.

Robert pointed at the floor in front of him. She stood at the space. "Now, child. Tell me what happened. Tell it all, and tell it true… It's a great crime, to lie to a king."

Sansa looked left and right, lips wobbling. She seemed about to cry. Ned made to hold her, but then she shuddered and stilled, and stared right into the eyes of her betrothed.

"He almost killed my sister," she stuttered, and Ned felt a harsh pit grow in his stomach as the hall erupted in disbelieving shouts. The prince's face turned puce, and Cersei scowled. Robert's eyes narrowed, his hand held up. The hall quietened. "Explain," he said.

"Joffrey and I were walking, making to know one another, as an intended should do." Sansa began, and Robert nodded. Ned nodded too. "We came across Arya and… Michel?"

"Mycah," Arya corrected, looking wholly relieved. Her anger seemed to have abetted with her sisters backing. Or at least, it was better concealed. Arya kept her anger long, like her mother did. Ned remembered seeing a list of people she hated one time. Marks had been tallied by each name, showing a retaliation of some sort. Her septa and sister were most noted on this list. He never knew what she did. Didn't want to know, either.

"Mycah," Sansa nodded. "They were playing knights, hitting at each other with sticks. Joffrey and I, we approached, and Joffrey pulled out his sword and challenged Mycah. He'd only the stick, and he'd dropped it and pled mercy." She was still stuttery, but with each word her voice grew surer. "Joffrey cut at his cheek, and then Arya hit him in the back with her stick. He- he called her a- a _filthy bitch_ , and then said he'd _gut her, you little cunt._ That was when Nymeria attacked."

Robert looked to be steaming, and Cersei's eyes were like wildfire, so enraged were they. Joffrey seethed in silence.

"Jon came up then," Sansa said, nodding to her brother. He approached, a hand on her shoulder. "He grabbed Joffrey and started asking questions."

"And what right do you have to question the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms?" Cersei asked Jon. Her look was both raging and hungry, and Ned knew not what that meant. He didn't like it though, that much he knew.

"Because she's my sister," Jon said. He'd dropped the _my queen_ and _your grace._ "My questions were more reminders than anything. I just asked him what happened the last time a prince of the realm acted in his manner."

"You threaten him."

"Yes." Jon nodding, admitting his action easily enough. Ned would have cheered him had his bluntness not been so dangerous. Lannister men shuffled from behind, hands meeting hilts. "Had he done as he threatened to do, I'd have killed him. Hung him by his entrails and paraded him through the streets. I'd do that and worse to anybody that killed my sister, or any of my brothers and sisters."

"And you'd-"

"Be right," Robert declared with a sigh, slumping back into his chair. Cersei whirled around on him with that same rage. It was building like a water dam ready to spill. "Joffrey, stand before me."

The prince moved with a stilted gait, holding his wrist wincingly. Robert stood, and looked over his son. Then he nodded shortly and punched the prince so hard in the gut that he hurled out his midday meal along with a spittle of blood. Cersei screamed. Arya grinned.

"I've been too lenient with you," Robert said balefully. He kicked Joffrey in the side, and the boy cried out in pain. Fat or not, Robert had not lost his strength. The room was silent as they watched on. Cersei had to be held back by the Kingslayer. " _Far_ too lenient. Let you traipse your mothers' silks, keeping to her men. I thought it fine enough at the time. Well, we see what that's gotten us. Near kill Ned's daughter? The daughter of my best friend? The sister to your betrothed? No, I won't allow it. I won't have it! I may not care much for being king, but I'll not sully that throne with such cruelty again. Ser Mandon!"

"Your grace?" the knight of the Kingsguard asked. He approached from behind Cersei. A dull man that knew only how to swing a sword and take orders.

"Make ready a horse, you'll be taking this shit to Casterly Rock come the morrow." Ser Mandon Moore nodded and stalked off, leaving a heavy tension in his wake. "Say what you will about my good-father, but Lord Tywin knows how to make people competent. I meant to have Jon's son ward under him, did you know Ned? He's my namesake, Robert Arryn. It's only right that I take care of him. But now… I'll give the Old Lion something else. Joffrey's to be his squire till Tywin thinks him ready. The matter of inheritance will be decided later."

" _You cannot do this!"_ Cersei shouted, thrashing from within her brothers' arms. " _I won't have it! I forbid it, Robert! Do you hear me?!"_

Robert turned to her, a grim, mocking turn in the curve of his lip. "Enjoy your night with our son, my queen. Who knows when you'll see him next?"

* * *

Sansa slept fitfully, tossing and turning randomly and regularly. Her day had been a trying one, her betrothal strained and likely finished along with many of her southron dreams. Arya had been taken by her sister's defense, and so allowed herself to be Sansa's sleeping mate. They were cuddled together beneath sheep's wool covers, taking comfort in one another's company.

Jon watched them from the corner of the room, tending to the fire. The apartment they'd been given in the inn was not a large thing, but neither was it small. Two beds of fair size sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by stone-bricked walls and wooden dressers. Bran was by himself in the second, smaller bed.

When they'd first arrived at the Crossroads, Jon had done his due and grabbed this room for himself and his brother before another could claim it. He was to have the larger bed and Bran the smaller. Then, just before their father went hunting, he was informed that Arya was to stay with them for the rest of the week. And with Sansa's own struggles it felt wrong to not have her with her siblings. She'd a hard day.

' _tis fine_ , Jon thought without inflection. _I am well used to this._

He did not mind sleeping without simple comforts. Valyria hadn't had any feather beds, nor did the Children's hovel. The Kingshouse did, but Jon hadn't felt comfortable taking space from Drystan Magnar, liege lord or not. He'd eventually returned to Acorn, in the new, temporary hovel the Children built into the eastern shore of Skagos, where he could see Ash grow and build a forge.

Outside the inn, dogs began to bark and howl. Jon looked to the window for a moment and approached, his curiosity getting the better of him. He opened the window and let the cool night air into their stuffy room. The howling grew louder, Nymeria and Lady and Summer's voices added to the mix. It was a loud and lonely sound, full of melancholy and despair.

A splotch of flickering red caught Jon's eye, and he craned his neck towards the light. Fire, he saw. A fire was burning through the larders of the inn, where farm animals were fed and watered and butchered when ready. And it was not just the dogs that were panicking, traveling nobles and knights were making to throw buckets of water on the burning building, to little effect. It had been a dry week, and the larder wood echoed that by how easily it caught afire.

Turning around, taking in his sleeping siblings, Jon made his choice. He rushed out of the room, locking it from behind, and made for the rooftop ladder. When he stood atop the flat of the stone roof, Jon sucked in his breath and focused his mind.

" _Lok… Gram LUV!"_

Sky. Cloud. Cry.

The silent overhead boomed with noise, clouds darkening and rolling in on one another, conjoining in a mass that soon bled an uncountable number of water droplets. The rain hit hard and fast, extinguishing the flame at a steady pace, quickened by the cheering men that worked even harder, loudly praising the Seven and the Old Gods as they did so.

Jon nodded, feeling satisfied, and made to return to his room. That Thu'um was one his own inventions made during his stay in Valyria, the dull totality of the Brand-ridden landscape having brought his mind to dark places many a time. Jon could not remove the Brand, nor could he allow light or rain through the Dome. But the sound of rain pattering against the Dome's roof brought him an uncanny calm, dashing his worries. He knew not why, and he cared little as to the why. It did, and Jon felt better for it.

The rain would last a good few hours, he knew. Time that was best spent asleep.

Only, Jon could not sleep. Not now. Not when he stared at his open room door, the door that he _knew_ he'd locked from behind. Worry rose in Jon, for the only other person meant to have his room key was the innkeeper, and Jon had spotted the man at the larder. Worry soon turned to panic, and Jon rushed at the room

" _TIID KLO UL!"_

The blue sheen the inn took as Jon twisted time to his mercy felt right. The flickering flame from a nearby torch turned reminiscent of rippling water, a slow movement that held pattern, but was normally to quick to see.

Jon rushed into his room, and rage overtook him. A small, dirty man in filthy brown clothing stood over Arya, a dagger of rippling steel near to plunging her neck. Had Jon been a second off, his sister would have been dead.

Jon rushed the man, tackling him into the wall, moving quicker than anybody outside of his realm could comprehend. The dagger fell away, floating against his sister's bedframe, and Jon gave in to the rage of the dragon, the fury that was the _Dovahsos_. He beat the man like a training dummy, his fists heavy and unrelenting, roaring his throat hoarse all the while.

When time resumed, his siblings awoke to his enraged screams. They turned over, and saw Jon burying fist after first into the face of a man that could not be recognized, a corpse at this point. Sansa screamed a loud, shrill thing, and Jon stilled, his anger cooling in an instant.

He jumped away from the man, looking at his work. He'd not gotten a good look at the man, and now nobody would. The face was purple and bloody, skull caved in. Whatever made this man a man could not be seen any more.

Jon turned towards Arya. She stared at the body with a disturbed sort of fascination, shaking through she was. He approached, and she shuffled away. Shame coiled in Jon, but he did not deter. He reached his hand past her body and grabbed the dagger hilt that was embedded into the wooden bedframe. Arya's eyes widened at it, and then the wide-eyed fear Jon expected came. She stared at the knife inches from her pillow, then at the man, and then at Jon, and understood.

With an inspective look, Jon took in the dagger. Valyria steel, with a curved dragonbone handle. It wasn't one of the daggers Jon had brought along, too Westerosi in design.

That brought a new question in Jon, one that worried him greatly.

 _Who would give a cutthroat a Valyrian steel dagger?_


End file.
